


They Think I'm Possessed

by deandatsgay (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Bottom Dean, Brainwashing, Conditioning, Crying!Dean, Dark Sam Winchester, Dean as Mary, Disturbing Themes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Mentally unstable!everyone, Mommy!Dean, Sibling Incest, Submissive/Bottom Dean, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean, possessive!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deandatsgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're so brave, Deano, and strong, just like your mother was. I need to you to keep that up, okay? I need you to be what she was for this family."</p><p>Eyes wide, Dean nods. </p><p>(SPN Kink Meme Fill, John/Dean, Sam/Dean, Dean raised as Sam's mom)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the SPN Kink Meme prompt: John has been brainwashing Dean and treating Dean as Mary's substitute all the years. John made Sam call Dean mommy. Want to read about Dean really thinks he is Mary while Sam discovering long time ago. Sam has grown an obsession for his beautiful "mommy". So once got a chance, Sam killed John. But Dean. who has suffer from John's brainwashing, just kept crying and accusing Sam of patricide. Heartbroken, Sam decided to keep going in John's old way, since Dean is their father's victim, Sam is going to make Dean his. 
> 
> Please read the prompt and the warnings. 
> 
> Title from Kanye West song "Black Skinhead". 
> 
> Feedback is very appreciated!

Grease slides slick over Dean's bottom lip and the savory scent of fried chicken tickles his nose as a thick thumb traces his mouth.   
  
"You have lips just like your Mommy," the man breathes, coal hot and sulfur sour against his ear. "Does your Daddy ever kiss them?"  
  
Dean doesn't shudder, shiver, and his belly doesn't tremble in disgust. He's brave, like his father is, like his father says his mother was. Instead he allows his eyes to drift shut, allows his mind to drift far, and gathers enough saliva to spit in the man's face.   
  
"Bitch!" the man growls. The back of his hand lands heavy across Dean's face, knuckles biting into Dean's cheekbones, but Dean barely makes a noise.  
  
The chains holding his father's wrists rattle violently. Dean glances at him, remembering the kind light and gentle strength that once shone in his mother's gaze, and tries to embrace her softness to ease his father's fear.   
  
"Don't you touch him," John hisses. "Don't you - "  
  
"Now, now, John," the man coos.   
  
His hand comes to soothe the stinging heat pulsing in Dean's cheek. Dean tries to move away - he isn't flinching, though, because he's brave - but the man curls his fingers into the crop of Dean's hair, stilling the boy as he continues to stroke his rough fingertips over smooth skin.   
  
"You get to play with this lovely little thing everyday. It's greedy of you not to share." The man smiles, dim yellow washed teeth dripping hunger over Dean's skin. "So pretty, hmm, just like your mommy. Isn't he, John? So pretty and so very stubborn. So very stupid. Does it make you want to do naughty things? Does it tempt you?"  
  
Dean closes his eyes as the man moves closer to him, the heat from greasy lips burning through his skull. He prepares himself for the smear of that sour mouth on his hair. It never comes.  
  
When Dean opens his eyes, the man is lying on his back, body convulsing as thick black smoke pummels violently from his mouth. Dean wants to close his eyes again, shield himself from the thick, clogging tornado of black and cruelty, but his father is watching him, eyes wide and frightened, and Dean won't leave his father alone.   
  
-  
  
The sitter John wrangled for Sammy eyes him warily when they return to the motel. Liam doesn't need to vocalize how wrong he thinks it was for John to tug his ten year old son along on the hunt, but John is weary, and his lips and throat are cracking dry, and he doesn't have the energy to explain again that using Dean as bait was the only viable option he had to lure the demon into their trap. John wasn't going to risk an innocent child, one who he couldn't depend on, one who couldn't take care of themselves, one who couldn't get the job done - one he couldn't trust.   
  
John drops a kiss on Sammy's forehead before he stumbles into the bathroom. His wrists ache, chafe, sting, but his chest and mind feel clear: burned clean and hollow. He carefully avoids his own gaze in the cracking mirror as he splashes water on his face.   
  
Dark words pulse along his skin, soft whispers of lips pressed against his, soft eyes calming his fear, making him strong. His hands curl around the counter. He breathes.   
  
The silence and darkness of the night feels oppressive, slick and constricting in his lungs, as he gently closes the bathroom door. He needs noise, something hot in his throat, something to feed the fire which leaves him empty and cleansed for his boys and his fight.   
  
"Shh."   
  
John peers through the motel room to see Dean, so strong and brave and beautiful (just like his Mommy), running his small, sturdy fingers through Sammy's hair.   
  
"Go back to sleep," Dean is whispering, lips against Sammy's forehead. A tiny hand is curled around his shirt, but Dean only smiles, gentle and indulgent, and pats his little brother's knuckles. "It's okay, Sammy, just go back to sleep."  
  
Sammy shakes his head and tightens his grip on Dean's sleeve. "I d-dreamed, Dean, I - you - y-you and D-Dad - "  
  
"Hey, hey, we're okay." Smiling, sun breaking through midnight (just like Mary), Dean brings Sammy's hand to his heart. "See? I'm fine, Dad's fine, and you're safe. Everything's okay."  
  
"Will you stay with me?" Sammy asks softly.  
  
"'Course," Dean answers easily. He settles into bed beside his baby brother and they curl together, sweet and innocent, everything in them John wants to protect and everything John has to burn from them in order to keep them alive.   
  
As John moves through the motel, ready to head to the bar he saw on their way back from the hunt, he is struck by the picture his sons paint. It is so much like the view he used to stumble upon years ago, when Dean would crawl into he and Mary's bed with nightmares and clinging arms, bringing a smile to Mary's lips and warmth to John's heart. He aches for Dean to have that comfort again, for Sammy to know it, and for that sweetness to lull him to sleep.   
  
-  
  
"You're not coming."  
  
Dean blinks at the gun in his hand before turning to blink at his father. He couldn't have heard the words correctly.   
  
"Dad?"  
  
Sighing, his father sinks onto the bed. He pats the space beside him. Dean moves instantly, confusion and dread beginning to beat heavy in his belly. He's done something wrong. He's been selfish, stupid, childish, weak: he's disappointed his father, failed at the job, let down his family and the people they're supposed to protect. He doesn't know how, but he must have. There's no other reason his father would be watching him with such somber eyes.   
  
"It's not that you're not a good partner," John begins. Dean bites his lips and wills the tears, stupid pinpricks of heat, not to well in his eyes. "Dean."  
  
"I can do better," Dean whispers solemnly.   
  
"Dean," his father repeats again, more sternly this time. A heavy hand curls around his shoulder. "Look at me."  
  
Hesitant, overwhelmed by the gnawing humiliation and failure beating in his lungs, Dean tips his head and meets his father's gaze.   
  
"I don't want to lose you again," John says softly.   
  
Confused, because he has never been lost before, Dean tilts his head and opens his mouth to question his father's words. John closes his eyes, though, and his entire body sags as if his muscle has turned to stone. Feeling unsure but unwilling to watch his father ache, Dean brings his own hand to his father's arms, patting it gently the way he does when Sammy dreams of ugly things. John sighs.   
  
"This family can't lose someone else. Sammy can't - can't lose another Mommy."  
  
Dean's hand falls from his father's arm.  
  
"That's what every family needs to stay together," John continues, but his eyes are still closed and his body is still tense.   
  
He sounds wary of the words he's speaking, which ratchets Dean's own sense of panic. His father is always sturdy, never unstable, never unsure. These words, this message, must be difficult; it must be important too, though. Dean can read it in the way his father's hand trembles on his shoulder.   
  
Carefully, slowly, softly, Dean licks his lips and asks, "A Mommy?"  
  
John releases a sharp breath. Eyes trembling with the force he's squeezed them shut, John nods. "And a Daddy. A - a family needs both, Dean, to keep from falling apart. You... you had your mother - " And Dean tenses, squeezing his fists and his own eyes tightly, because they never mention the mother who held him through his nightmares and made him laugh and kissed his forehead at night. " - but Sammy never really got to know what that was like."  
  
Dean feels a seizure of sympathy for his little brother, who never knew the melody of their mother's laughter or the warmth of her chocolate chip cookies.   
  
"You miss her, don't you Dean?" Before Dean can answer, his father whispers, "I miss her. I miss her so much. Every day."  
  
It's so strange to hear his father speak of his mother, to hear his father speak so softly or sincerely. Dean squirms, uncomfortable, the same feeling of not knowing how to react that made him awkward when the TV at their last motel was stuck on Lifetime. He wonders briefly if his father is possessed. The christo is on his lips when John squeezes his shoulder and finally opens his eyes. They are red and wet and heavy. Dean wants to wrap his arms around his father the way he would for Sammy, but he remains still.  
  
"You're so brave, Deano, and strong, just like your mother was. I need to you to keep that up, okay? I need you to be what she was for this family."  
  
Eyes wide, Dean nods.   
  
-  
  
Things are different after that day.   
  
Things are better.   
  
Dean doesn't go on hunts except for very, very rare occasions, but he still gets to clean the weapons. He learns that not hunting doesn't mean his father doesn't trust him, though, because his father trusts him to take care of their family, of precious baby Sammy who is the innocence his father is trying to keep safe in the world, of John himself, who is a hero, who doesn't need help killing monsters but does need a gentle, knowing hand to bandage his wounds.   
  
Dean doesn't disappoint his father anymore.   
  
When he cooks, John eats his meals and smiles wide, patting his stomach and complimenting Dean's recipe; when he cleans, attempting to keep the motels and small houses they rent presentable, John kisses the top of his head and thanks him for working so hard; when he helps Sammy with his homework, plays games with him, keeps him company, John hugs him close and tells him that without him, Sammy wouldn't be happy and John wouldn't be sane.   
  
Dean doesn't go to school, which makes Sammy cry at first, then whine, then fume. He argues with John about it until Dean presents a pie or suggests a game of cards or places his hands softly on both of their shoulders, draining their energy for screaming. There are times Dean misses it, too, but really, he knows all he needs to know: how to take care of his Sammy and his John. There isn't really much more he needs or wants to learn.  
  
There are a few occasions when Dean resents his new role.   
  
He can't play with other children his age, can't speak with anyone when he takes Sammy to the park (neither can Sammy, which settles jagged in his chest, but he only discusses it with John once), and he can't go to the arcade or the movies.   
  
Eventually, though, sitting in his room, reading and trying and failing and re-trying different recipes, sewing Sammy's torn clothes, sewing John's torn skin, and keeping the weapons and the Impala shining become enough.   
  
-  
  
Sam knows when his father insists he call his big brother 'Mommy' that something is wrong. He's seen a picture of his mother a few times, her golden hair and light eyes and bright smile, and while he can recognize something similar about the way his heart swells for her and for Dean, he knows they aren't the same.   
  
"A Mommy takes care of you," his father explains while Dean flits through the kitchen, stacking mismatched meats with stale bread for lunch. "Cooks for you, cleans for you, helps you sleep when you have bad dreams. That's what your Mommy does for you."   
  
Something curdles sick and sour and thick like bad milk in his gut. His father's gaze is trembling, as if he's begging for Sam to just embrace the sickness while his words are demanding Sam to believe them. Sam doesn't really understand why his father is asking him this, why Dean is going along with it, but it makes him feel hot and cold, makes his blood surge like when he stumps his toe and screams more in anger than in pain.   
  
He raises his hand, isn't sure if he's going to slam it on the table or sweep his glass to the ground, but is sure he needs to do something, when Dean slides a plate in front of him. The sandwich is stacked high and there is a pile of Cheetos and Funions on either side. Sam looks from the plate to his big brother's face to find a small smile playing on plush lips.   
  
"Eat your lunch, Sammy," his father says from the other side of the table. "And thank your Mommy for your sandwich."  
  
Sam narrows his eyes at his father. He's not hungry, feels nauseous, and his mouth has never even formed the word he's being commanded to speak. Another look at Dean's face quells one of the ice spikes of sickness clogging his throat, though, and he finds his mouth moving.   
  
"Thanks," he says. Swallowing heavily, he continues, though his belly rumbles queasy and sour as he does. "Thanks, Mo - Mommy. It looks great."  
  
Dean beams at him before pressing a kiss to his temple. Sam closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, but the warm slide of soft lips on his heated skin does comfort him.   
  
Later, Sam throws up his lunch. He goes outside, though; he doesn't want Dean to hear to him.  
  
-  
  
Dean knows he isn't Sammy's mommy the same way Mary was. Obviously. He didn't give birth to Sammy. He's not a chick. But he is Sammy's mommy.   
  
He is the one who makes Sammy breakfast, who irons Sammy's clothes for school plays, who tucks Sammy in and wakes Sammy up in the morning. Those are things that make a mother: love, support, comfort, caring and care taking. Biology doesn't have anything to do with the tender things that make Dean the mother of their family (even though their blood does beat the same).   
  
With every intent, for every purpose, Dean is Sammy's mom. Dean knows Sammy has trouble adjusting to his new role. It's heartbreaking, really, how awkwardly Sammy says the word 'Mommy', how he tenses when Dean tells him stories at night, how he squirms when Dean washes his hair.   
  
Dean reminds himself that it's just because Sammy isn't used to having a mommy, but when his heart hangs heavy, John will run a hand through his hair and tell him he's the best mommy their family could have hoped for. The words soothe Dean. He's never been the best at anything, doesn't think he could be the best at anything else, but it doesn't matter; being a mother to Sam and a partner to John is the most important role Dean can imagine for anyone, and he's the one who’s allowed to fill it.   
  
-  
  
As the years pass, the roots of Dean's role burrow further into his spirit. Every time he grows, it is deeper in love.   
  
His spine lengthens and and his shoulders broaden and he grows more protective; he keeps Sammy closer to him when they walk through neighborhoods, is quicker to raise his voice or hands to anyone he deems a threat.   
  
His muscles thicken and he grows more loyal; the secret smiles girls shoot in his direction, the ones that once made him ache to slip from Sammy's bed and into the warmth of another body, are not nearly as appealing, not when there could be evil lurking in the delicate bones that reach for them, not when a taste could lure him from the family he keeps together.   
  
His hair gets longer and his skills as the cook, the cleaner, the care taker, grow.   
  
-  
  
As the years pass, Sam finds clarity, and with understanding comes anger, disgust, and devotion.   
  
The older he grows, the sharper his mind becomes, the more startling the disease his family breathes becomes. He listens to the words his father speaks into his brother's ear, watching the poison slither through Dean's head, and his blood burns with rage and his throat burns with bile. His understanding of his father's sickness, the sickness he is imprinting upon Dean and attempting to sink into Sam, makes him clench his jaw until it aches. He can barely speak past the hatred to grunt single syllable answers to his father's questions.  
  
Harsh as realization makes him to his father, the insanity pumping his family along softens everything he feels for his brother. He can't find it in himself to be frustrated with Dean; every time he looks into his brother's spring green eyes, he only finds adoration, achingly pure and fierce.   
  
Dean was slated with taking care of both himself and their father ever since Sam can remember; of course John's trembling, terrible words and pushes convinced him playing mom in their crumbling house was best. Sam knows his father used him as leverage, as sick reasoning; knows that Dean answers to mommy because he thinks its what their family, what little Sammy, needs. He doesn't understand how his father could do that to his own son.  
  
-  
  
When Dean turns eighteen, he's allowed to take Sammy to school again. He had to stop when he was around thirteen; it brought up too many questions when he walked Sammy to the front doors but didn't go in himself.   
  
Dean had been waiting for his birthday, eager to bring Sammy to the classes he loved so much, to watch over him on his way to and from the halls and protect him from demons in the shadows or bullies in the light.  
He nearly bolts out of bed that morning.   
They're renting a two bedroom on the wrong side of town this week, so there is actually a kitchen for him to make breakfast in. He's setting the coffee when Sammy shuffles into the kitchen. His long hair is knotted on one side. Dean can't help but laugh and shake his head before pulling a comb from his pocket.  
  
"Morning, sleepy head," he greets teasingly. "Sit down. The coffee'll make while I get that nest outta your hair."  
  
Sammy, still groggy, takes a seat at one of the mismatched, wobbling chairs. Dean smiles. His boy is so ridiculously precious.   
  
He moves behind Sammy and trails the comb through some of the smoother strands. Before running the comb through the tangled mass on top of Sammy's head, Dean takes a fistful of hair in hand, holding the roots so he doesn't pull them as he combs through the mess. Sammy is tender headed, and his eyes used to water when they were younger and Dean wasn't gentle enough. Dean is a good mom, though, and learned how to brush Sammy's locks without hurting him.  
  
"Wait," Sammy says and Dean tenses, afraid he's somehow pulled too hard, somehow hurt his little Sammy. But then Sammy squirms, digging into his pocket for something, and pulls out a leather cord with a glinting charm in the middle.  
  
Sammy offers Dean the necklace with a shy smile and gentle hands. Beaming, Dean drops a big kiss to Sammy's cheek. Sammy's face is ablaze with embarrassment, which Dean has always found amusing and strange, because who gets embarrassed at affection from their mother, but Sammy's smile is bright at Dean's obvious delight.   
  
"It's an amulet," Sammy explains. "It's, um, it's supposed to protect you."   
  
"I love it, Sammy."   
  
He does.   
  
He fumbles with the cord for a moment, trying to get it tied, but Sammy smile and stands.   
  
"Let me?" he asks, sounding oddly breathy as his eyes move over the column of Dean's throat.   
  
Dean nods. Sammy releases a soft breath and moves behind him to tie it. Once he's finished, the amulet slides between Dean's collar bones. It's not a heavy weight, but it's obvious, and Dean's chest tightens underneath it. The fingers at the back of his neck skirt over the collar of his t-shirt, moving along the soft hairs at the base of his neck, before slipping forward, stroking gently over his throat.   
  
"There," Sammy breathes.  
  
Dean turns, smiling, and tilts his head when he sees the blush still staining his Sammy's face. "Thank you, Sammy. Really. This is the best present I've ever gotten." He reaches out to ruffle Sammy's floppy hair. "Besides you, of course."  
  
"Good morning Sammy," their father greets, startling Sammy and drawing Dean's attention. As their gazes meet, John's smile widens. "Happy birthday morning, Mommy."   
  
"Thanks," Dean smiles. In the corner of his eye, he sees Sammy's gaze narrow. "We were just about to have breakfast. Then I was going to walk Sammy to school."  
  
Dean says it as a statement, voice steady even as his heart pounds with his lack of surety. He bites his lip.  
  
John laughs, warm and deep. "You could do that," he says, and Dean's heart begins to sink. Hasn't he proven himself a good mom? Hasn't he - "Or you could drive him."  
  
The keys to the Impala drop from John's fingers, dangling brighter than gold gleaming under the sun. Dean's face breaks into a grin. He feels ridiculous for doubting himself - of course he's a good mommy, he's the best - and even more so for doubting John.  
  
"Awesome," he says, reaching for them. "I'll bring her back safe and sound."  
  
"No, no," John laughs again. "She's yours. I'm giving her to you." When Dean can only respond with a slack face, open mouth and wide eyes, John grins. "Happy birthday, Mommy."  
  
Dean launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around John, body buzzing with disbelief. The Impala is his. No more walking to the grocery store or depending on John to get everything on the list, no more trusting strangers to give Sammy rides or walking him miles to the library, no more waiting for John to get back from a hunt to make a run to get Sammy new school supplies or clothes.   
  
He'll even get to drive Sammy to school, drop him off in the car pool lane like the normal kid Sammy wants so badly to be, the way all the other mom's do.  
  
"Thank you," Dean whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."  
  
John chuckles again. He pulls away from the hug, clapping a hand on Dean's shoulder. His hand doesn't move when he turns his gaze to Sammy.   
  
"Sammy," he asks, grin wavering. "Have you told your Mommy happy birthday yet?"  
  
"He doesn't need to," Dean answers for him. He can't keep the smile from his face as he looks between his family. "This is the best birthday ever."  
  
John offers him a warm look before directing his attention back to Sammy.  
  
Dropping his gaze to the floor, Sammy murmurs, "Happy birthday, Mom."  
  
-  
  
Some days, Sam actually wonders if he's the crazy one: if Dean really is his mother and he's the only one who doesn't see it. (Even though part of him  _does_ see it: Dean is his mother in the definition John and Dean have set.)  
  
He has to remind himself that Dean is a man, his older brother, but as his feelings twist, morph and pervert themselves, the reminders become less and less grounding.   
  
Today Sam feels the insanity eating at him.   
  
Thoughts he shouldn't have for his mother  _or_  his brother are sliding around his brain, laughing at him, and he can't concentrate on the numbers dancing fuzzy in front of his eyes.   
  
He knows, logically, Dean won't be able to help him with the problem: John pulled Dean out of school before he even got to Algebra. The knowledge doesn't stop the sick, slithering things in his blood from falling from his lips.   
  
"Dean," he calls, heart pounding. His mouth tingles from forming around the name he hasn't spoken out loud in years. It feels good to say, freeing and forbidden. Fire licks the edge of his belly, heats his blood with the frustration of this disease and hot thoughts that haunt him in the dark. "Can you help me with this, Dean?"   
  
Dean, who has been folding laundry that will only be rumpled once they stuff them back into their duffles, looks up from the flannel shirt he's lain on the bed.   
  
"What?" he asks, blinking.   
  
Sam nearly bites his lip, nearly sucks the words back into his mouth, but they're already floating through the air; he can't undo them. And he shouldn't. He shouldn't let this sick charade, disgusting facade, continue. Maybe all it will take is one push to shatter the little glass globe John has locked his brother into.   
  
"Can you check this problem for me, Dean? I can't find X."  
  
Dean stares at him for several moments, confusion and hurt flickering through his usually shining eyes. Dean attempts to laugh through the obvious ache, asking, "Wha - Sammy, why are you calling me that?"  
  
"What?" Sam questions. His mouth feels dry. "Dean?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says tensely. "Why - Sammy, come on." He shakes his head, as if the gentle movement will shed the wrongness of the words.   
  
But it's not Sam whose wrong. It's not Dean's name that doesn't belong. Taking a deep breath, Sam gathers his courage, finds strength in his anger, and speaks. "Because that's your name, Dean."  
  
Dean stares at him for several long, tense moments. Sam wonders if maybe he's gone too far too fast: maybe he's startled Dean, pulled him from the fantasy too harshly, set him spinning with nothing to grip for balance.  
"Look, Sammy," his brother sighs. "I know your new little friend calls his hippy dippy parents by their first names. And that's fine, if you're a hippy. But in this family, we respect the people who take care of us, okay, and you know that's not - "  
  
"But that's your name," Sam nearly screeches. His frustration is bubbling into adrenaline, pounding through his brain, and he wonders wildly if maybe his head is just going to explode. "You're not - Dean, you're not my parent. You're not my mom. You - Jesus Christ, you have to know that, Dean, you - "  
  
"Stop calling me that!"  
  
They are both breathing hard, chests moving harshly, blood rushing through their ears. Sam stares at Dean, at this person who has loved and cared for him since before he can remember, and for the first time he wonders if either of them really know who he’s looking at.   
  
Dean looks away first, clenching his jaw and his fists as he breathes in heavily through his nose.   
  
“I get it,” Dean murmurs softly. “You don’t want to leave another town, start in another school, and you’re…lashing out. It’s what teenage boys do.”  
  
Fear and sadness, drenched in utter helplessness, race blood dawn red in Sam’s blood.   
  
“You are too,” Sam whispers, terrified that Dean has forgotten, that Dean doesn’t know or understand. Wetness wells hot and horrific in his eyes. “You… Dean, you are too.”  
  
A harshness, a coldness, blankets Dean’s features. Sam has never seen it harden his brother’s face before, but he has seen it lying thick over his father’s features.   
  
“I know exactly what I am, Sammy,” Dean says. His voice is quiet but his tone is firm, tense, so much like his father’s, so much like…like a parent, like a mom whose scolding their child through clenched teeth. Sam drops his watery gaze to his book. “What I don’t know is why you’re acting like this.”  
  
“You’re not my mother.” Sam has to close his eyes, his heart, as he speaks the words. “Dean, you’re not my mother. You’re my brother. You’re – ”  
  
“Haven’t I taken care of you?” Dean snaps.   
  
His hands are clutching the shirt he was folding before, knuckles white. His jaw is trembling. Sam can feel his own spirit splintering as he watches Dean shake. He wants so badly to stand, reach out, wrap Dean in his warmth and lead him gently from the thing John has poisoned him into becoming. He doesn’t move; instead he sits, frozen, as Dean drops the shirt onto the bed and turns towards him.   
  
“I’m the only mother you’ve ever known,” Dean says as he moves to sit beside Sam on the brown, tattered motel couch. His eyes are sad and Sam aches with the knowledge that he planted that sadness there. “I don’t understand why you would say that. Haven’t I always kept you fed, clothed, happy? I thought I had. I thought – I’ve always done my best to make you a good life, Sammy. I’ve always done my best to be the best mom I could be to you.”  
  
Dean drops his head into his hands. His neck sags and it looks broken, sick, and his fingers press half-moon shapes into his skin. Sam wonders if he should keep pushing, if he should keep insisting Dean is his brother, his brother, his brother (his) until Dean breaks apart and Sam can rebuild him into the man he knows Dean is supposed to be. They could run, then, slide from John’s clutches, and Sam could take care of his brother until Dean’s fractured soul healed. Maybe Sam could even be the one to heal it.   
  
A quiet sound shatters the tracks of Sam’s mind. Without thinking, he wraps his palm around Dean’s knee and scoots closer.   
  
“Dean,” he says, plaintive, begging, because he doesn’t really know how to be anything else. He doesn’t have the same authority his father does, doesn’t have the magic voice and touch to make people obey; he’s never needed it with Dean before, always getting his way through slanted eyes and pursued lips. “Dean, please…”  
  
Strong hands slide away from Dean’s face, revealing soft tear tracks Sam desperately wants to kiss away. His body moves before his brain can send the signals to stop, but the sound of the door swinging open startles him into inaction.   
  
“I picked up – Sammy?” their father asks from the door. He must see the tears on Dean’s face, because he drops his bag and rushes toward them, kneeling on the floor and taking Dean’s hands in his own.   
  
“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sam bristles.   
  
Another thing that’s changed since Dean turned eighteen, besides the change of ownership in the Impala and the small freedoms he’s been allowed, is that John has taken to referring to Dean as sweetheart, sometimes darling or honey; Sam finds it more disturbing than when John called Dean Mommy too, finds it more enraging and blood boiling.   
  
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”   
  
He looks to Sam, doing a quick check for injuries, because the only times Dean sheds tears is when he thinks one of his precious family has been hurt.   
  
“Nothing,” Dean says quickly. He forces a water smile and rubs his palms over his cheeks. “Nothing, just – I hate it when I can’t help Sammy with his homework. What kind of mom lets their kid fail Algebra, huh?”  
  
“Sammy,” their father says sharply. Dean’s mouth falls open to explain further, draw suspicion from Sam, but Sam has already met his father’s eyes. “What happened?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam repeats. He glares at his father’s and brother’s joined hands, hating that his father would be cruel and callous and sick enough to touch his beautiful son so filthily, hating that his father is allowed to while Sam can only watch and boil. Adrenaline pounding, he continues. “I was just asking Dean – ”  
  
Dean flinches beside him. Sam hates that he has to inflict pain on the one person who he loves, the one person who loves him, but he can’t stand this sick regime any longer. He won’t.   
  
John’s eyes freeze, anger and disappointment flecks of ice in the dark depths. “Do you really think that’s an appropriate way to refer to your mother, Sam?”  
  
A frustrated noise falls from his clenched teeth. “He’s not my mother. He’s my brother, and Dean is his name, and I’m not going to let you fuck with him anymore. I’m not going to fucking call him that.”  
  
  
Thick fingers curl immediately around his shirt collar, yanking him forward. He pushes his chin forward, defiant as his nostrils flair and his fear races. He has no idea what his father will do to him. Fear clenches and unclenches in his gut before he realizes his father can never hurt him as much as he’s hurt Dean. Rage replaces his apprehension.   
  
“John.” His brother’s gasp draws his eyes. He watches as Dean brings his hand to John’s wrist and removes them from Sam’s shirt. “Calm down, John, he’s only acting out. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”  
  
Fury is still obvious in their father’s face, his voice, when he speaks. “That doesn’t give him the right to disrespect his family.” He looks to Dean. Speaking softer, he adds, “It doesn’t give him the right to hurt you.”  
  
Dean’s expression is earnest as he takes their father’s hands into his. The gesture makes Sam burn brighter.   
  
“I’m fine,” Dean says with a soft smile. “Really.”  
  
Sam can’t watch this any longer. He stands abruptly and ignores the wide-eyed expression his brother shoots him (ignores the ache of ignoring his brother’s ache) and marches towards the door. His father’s voice booms behind him as he bolts.  
  
-  
  
The sight of his son running through the door sends a jolt of frustration, coated heavily in desperation, through John’s bones. He moves to follow him, planning to scream or beat some sense into his youngest, when Dean’s hand around his bicep stills him.  
  
“John,” he says softly.  
  
Closing his eyes, he takes a moment to let Dean’s gentle voice calm him before turning around. Dean’s face is so free of anger or complaint, colored in adoration and concern, and it eases the flames licking his heart to stone.  
  
“I know,” John sighs. “Let the boy be.” Dean grins at him, the softest ray of sunshine, and his palm finds the smooth skin of Dean’s cheek before he realizes he’s moved closer. Swallowing, John attempts to speak through the sudden stone heavy heat in his throat. “What would this family do without you, Mommy?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Dean answers brightly. He brings his own hand to John’s, pressing his palm against his cheek, before moving away.  
  
John sinks onto the couch, ignoring the lumps in the cushion and the way Dean’s hands seem so sturdy yet so fragile as he picks up John’s bag. Dean is the mother Sam needs, he reminds himself, the gentle strength that tempers the links of their family and keeps them from breaking.  
  
He knows their situation isn’t normal, knows it isn’t what anyone including himself would consider right, but Dean is happy and when Sam isn’t suffering his teenage angst, he’s happy too. That’s more than he thought he would be able to offer his sons after their mother burned to ash.  
  
They’ve had to shed the morals of daylight, embrace what they have to do to survive while ensuring monsters don’t, and this is just another part of keeping them together until they can destroy the thing that tore their world apart.   
  
For years, the dynamic has worked, smooth and simple.   
  
John isn’t sure when that near perfection fractured, but he’s been feeling the cracks in his surface dig deeper, begin to taint his blood and bones.   
  
Since Dean turned eighteen (since before then, really, since each year Dean becomes more like his mother, since each year his heart and face and body become more beautiful, too beautiful to ignore), he’s felt the infection spreading. He’s become excellent at burying unpleasant thoughts and sick coils of emotion though, as excellent as he has at digging up a grave, and he’s been able to ignore the heat simmering in his chest.   
  
“I’ll start on dinner,” Dean says after dropping John’s duffle at his feet.   
  
Before Dean moves away, John catches his wrist.   
  
“John?”   
  
He sounds so young, so soft, the same tone he used the night John explained the new role he would need to play for their family. John’s thumb traces a circle over his pulse. (God, Dean is so soft, softer than Mary was; softer skin, softer heart, softer lips. John closes his eyes.)  
  
“I’m sorry he said that to you, sweetheart,” John says. “You’re the best mother a boy could have.”  
  
Dean smiles, so soft and proud, and even as dark thoughts begin to gnaw at his heart, John can’t help but smile back.   
  
-  
  
Mothers are overprotective; mothers think no girl can compare to their ability to love, cherish and care for their son; mothers worry too much.   
  
Dean knows these things, but it doesn’t stop him from wringing his hands together as Sam finishes combing his hair.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Dean asks. Again. “You said Nellie thought the Impala was cool. She’ll think you’re cool if you get chauffeured in the Impala.”  
  
Sam shoots a gentle glance in his direction. Dean pretends to focus on chopping celery.   
  
“Her name is Ellie. I’ve told you like a hundred times.”  
  
“Well I’m sorry if I’ve been distracted by taking care of this family,” Dean mutters. He realizes he’s being melodramatic, bitchy, but irritation is chafing under his skin. “I haven’t even met this Shelly girl. How do we know she’s not a demon? Or a succubus?” Under his breath, he adds, “Or a  _succubitch_.”  
  
Sam snorts. “Mom,” he sighs. “She’s human. And if she’s not, I have a knife in my boot.”  
  
Scooping up a pile of celery, Dean clicks his tongue before dropping them into the stew pot. “How long has she been driving?” he prods.  
  
“She got her license a month ago.”  
  
  
“A month,” Dean huffs. He moves to the fridge and grabs an onion. “Maybe you should drive.”  
  
“I don’t have a license.”  
  
“Pfft,” Dean snorts. “I don’t have a license. I drive all the time. You should drive. You have more experience.”  
  
He sets the onion on the chopping block. He doesn’t think he’ll tear up as he sends Sammy on his first date, but if any heat wells in the corner of the eye, he’ll at least have chopping the onion as an excuse.   
  
It hits him with dawning horror that he’s become one of those dreaded helicopter moms, hovering above Sammy’s head, stifling his breath and limbs. Dean has always promised himself he would never become the overbearing mother that drove Sammy to insanity, but apparently he’s morphed into one of the exaggerated television moms. He chops fiercely through the realization.  
  
“Mom.”   
  
Sammy stands behind him. Dean turns and surveys his outfit: jeans Dean pressed earlier (and briefly thought about spilling ink over, opting not to only because he didn’t think a stain would stop Sammy from his date), a dark green button down and a soft leather jacket.   
  
Despite himself, pride blooms in his chest. “You look very handsome,” he says.  
  
Sammy flushes and ducks his head. “Thanks, Mom,” he murmurs. “You look – I mean, you always look. Beautiful.”   
  
Rolling his eyes, Dean reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me young man. It certainly won’t get this Kelly on my good side.”  
  
“Ellie,” Sammy stresses again, but there is a small smile on his lips. “Look, Mom, if you’re really – if you’re really that worried, I can cancel.”  
  
Dean  _is_  that worried, but he also doesn’t want Sammy to miss out on his first date. It’s a big step for a boy, after all.   
  
“No, don’t cancel. I’m just being one of those Mom’s. Y’know, like…like…” Mouth dropping open, Dean brings a hand to his face. “Oh God, I’m the mom from  _Everybody Loves Raymond_.”  
  
Sammy laughs. “No, Mom, you’re not.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “No, no, I am. Do you know how many times I’ve already criticized Deli in my head? If you two got married, I would bring you food every day, even if she cooked. I would come over  _every day_.”  
  
“Mom,” Sammy says, still laughing, but his expression is earnest and pillow soft. “Deli – Ellie and I aren’t going to get married, okay, we’re just going to a movie. And even…even if I get married, I wouldn’t…” He looks down. “I’d want you to come over every day. I wouldn’t even want a girl who thought her cooking was as good as yours. I’d – I mean, I’d move you in our house. You’d still be the most important person in my life.”  
  
Dean is stunned into silence, unable to speak or move. His Sammy is still staring at the ground when his limbs unfreeze.   
  
“Sammy,” he says, then moves to gather his boy into his arms. It’s a little stranger now that Sammy is a good two inches taller than him, but Sammy’s added height and bulk do comfort some of the fears Dean’s always had about Sammy’s safety. He knows Sammy can take care of himself (he’d just much, much rather he not have to) but now other people can see it as well. “You big teddy bear.”  
  
“Mom,” Sammy whines, but he returns the hug just as fiercely. He buries his nose into Dean’s hair and takes a deep breath. Dean would think Sammy was inhaling his scent instead of oxygen with the way Sammy pulls him closer, but he understands his Sammy is nervous about his big night. “M’serious, you know. You’re – you’re the most important thing in the world to me. I love you, Mommy.”  
  
When Dean pulls away, his worries haven’t eased, but his chest is bursting from Sammy’s words. Things have been tense between the entire family since Sammy’s incident. It seems that Sammy’s overcome whatever issue was making him lash out, and Dean couldn’t be more thrilled to hear Sammy call him Mommy again.  
  
The doorbell rings. Sammy looks nervously towards the entryway.   
  
“Go on,” Dean says, nudging him. He turns the stove to simmer and slides his apron over his neck. He’s going to head into the bedroom, wait until Deli (which is his favorite not-the-girls-name to use) and Sammy have left to finish the stew, but Sammy steps in front of him.   
  
“Do you want to meet her?” he asks, voice tense and body posture uneasy.  
  
Dean raises a quizzical brow. He never ‘meets’ anyone, never introduces himself or speaks to others, and never interacts with anyone who John and Sammy know. John explained how Dean could never let anyone outside the family know that he served as the Mommy they so desperately needed; no one but family would understand.   
  
“It was just…” Sammy trails off. “I just never get to talk about you or show you off to anyone. No one knows I have the most beautiful, most awesome mom ever.”  
  
Dean smiles. He hears those words from John, but not as often from Sammy. He leans forward to kiss Sammy’s cheek. Sammy’s eyes close as he does, nostrils flaring and mouth dropping open. Dean pulls away quickly. For some reason, he feels embarrassed.   
  
“Have fun with Deli.”  
  
Dean waits in the bathroom, cleaning the mirror, until he hears the door close. He counts to five before rushing to the small window that shows the parking lot.   
  
Sammy and Deli are walking to her a car: a green Volkswagen with fake eyelashes fashioned to the headlights. That’s probably a safety hazard, Dean thinks darkly. Then Deli glances towards their front door, and Dean can see the dark green of her black lined eyes. A gust of wind blows her wheat hued hair, plastering a strand to her pink lips, and she laughs.   
  
Dean thinks she looks almost like Mary.  
  
-  
  
Greek mythology has always interested Sam. He vaguely reads over the myth of Oedipus, face burning and stomach rolling as he thought of his own father and mother, but when he is sixteen his English class reads the play out loud. He isn’t assigned a speaking part. He’s thankful.  
  
Mrs. Wright is discussing the concept of the Oedipus complex. The rest of the students make scrunched faces and disgusted groans. Sam stares hard at his textbook.  
  
“Now, is it a complex if it’s just your own mom, or do your friends moms count? Because I would like to Oedipus Daniel’s mom.”  
  
“Mr. Callahan!” their teacher scolds.  
  
Grinning, Caleb turns towards Sam. “Hey, dude, I’ve never seen your mom. Is she hot? Can I Oedipus her?”  
  
Caleb is yanked from his seat by Mrs. Wright’s bright red acrylic nails. Sam clenches his jaw.  
  
-  
  
When Dean picks him up from school, Sam is still blushing. He can’t help but play Caleb’s questions over in his mind.   
  
“Hey Sammy,” Dean greets as Sam slides into the front seat. “Good day at school? What’d you learn?”  
  
  
 _You’re beautiful_ , Sam doesn’t say.  _I want you_.  _I would claw the eyes out of anyone who touched you_.   
  
“Not much,” Sam answers.   
  
-  
  
That night, Sam leans against the tiled shower wall and searches for patterns in the dingy shower curtains. All he finds is Dean’s face.   
  
He thinks about Caleb, his pale, skinny fingers, unworthy, on Dean’s body. He supposes the only sliver of a silver lining in the fucked up, un-functional dynamic of his family is that Dean has never ventured beyond he or John.   
  
Dean has never been kissed. Never been touched. Never fucked or been fucked.   
  
Sam tries not to think about how untouched, how pure and precious, his beautiful brother is, because it makes his fingers itch.   
  
The three girls Sam has lost himself in have been pretty and kind, have had strange senses of humor that make him laugh inappropriately loud at inappropriate times.   
  
None of them have had Dean’s eyes, though. Even with mascara they haven’t had the length or fanning span of his lashes. None of them have Dean’s lips. Even with lipstick or gloss, their mouths haven’t been as pink or plush or pouty. None of them have had Dean’s freckles, or strong jaw, or soothing voice, or gentleness. None of them have been as beautiful.  
  
It’s a realization that has come to him before, but Sam feels just as jarred by the knowledge that he will never love someone the way he loves Dean as he did the first time.   
  
There isn’t another soul strong enough to endure what Dean has endured for him. There isn’t another soul selfless or sweet enough to climb into the husk of a ghost and play house to protect him.   
  
Sam tries not to think about Dean as he strokes his fingers down the length of his cock. But he’s tired, so damn tired, and he’s starting to think he must be as crazy as the rest of his family, and really, what does it matter if he thinks of Dean’s skin while he jerks himself off in the motel room they’ve paid for with a stolen credit card?  
  
He squeezes his eyes and breathes in deeply. The wafting scent of fast food makes him want to gag, makes his stomach grumble for Dean’s cooking, and the thought of Dean preening in his green apron over the dinner he’s prepared for his Sammy gets him harder than it should. His head hits the shower tile as he strokes himself, thumbs the head of his cock, cups his balls in his other hand.   
  
His mind conjures Dean in the shower with him. He thinks of when he was younger, when Dean would help him in the bath because that’s what Mommy’s did; he thinks he could probably coax Dean into the bath with him again, even though he’s all grown up now. Dean would probably tease him, but in the end Dean would climb behind him, run strong fingers through his hair, lather his chest and arms and legs.   
  
Sam could guide his soapy hand around his cock, could say  _please, Mommy, please, need you_ , could get Dean to jerk him slow and rough and perfect.  
  
It’s so wrong – it’s so fucking wrong, oh Jesus Christ, it’s so wrong – but Sam feels so sure he could pull it off. He can see it, damn, he can fucking smell Dean’s skin, and he pushes his hips into the next pull of his fist.   
  
“Dean,” he pants, increasing the pressure of his hold on his cock until it’s nearly painful. “Fuck, f-fuck – Mom.”   
  
He comes over his fist. He breathes heavily for a few moments, coming down from his eye, until his eyes fly wide open.   
  
Did he – oh God – did he say –  
  
He leans forward so he can bang the back of his head on the shower. The dull sting spreads through the base of his skull. It hurts, but not enough to cleanse the sickness from his stomach.


	2. Part Two

There are some monsters John can’t kill alone. Dean understands. Honestly, he’d prefer if John  _never_  hunted alone, but he’d prefer it even more if Sammy wasn’t the backup John fell against on particularly trying hunts. He would gladly swing a sawed off over his shoulder and proudly fight by John’s side if he could, but ever since Sammy’s first towering growth spurt, Dean was officially benched. He’d joked John had only wanted to keep him barefoot and in the kitchen, but his muscles had spasmed and tried to crawl through his throat, wrap themselves around John’s feet and beg him to keep their Sammy home.   
  
Now Sammy has a good two years of experience under his belt, and Dean knows his John will bring his Sammy home to him, but it still chills his spine whenever he watches them leave for a job.   
  
A werewolf has been terrorizing a small Virginia town, and tonight John needs Sammy at his side. Dean makes sure they have a sturdy supper in their bellies before they go and is glad to have another opportunity to remark how smart it was of him to find a motel with a small kitchenette. He makes sure they have enough supplies, too, and makes sure neither of them walk out the door without a warm canister of coffee, a tight embrace, and a lingering kiss to their foreheads.   
  
Dean’s cell is on his thigh. He isn’t expecting a call, but he’s ready to answer if his boys need him. While he waits for his family to come home to him (because he is their home – it’s a mother that makes four walls and a ceiling a home, after all) he surfs online for quick family recipes.   
  
He ends up stumbling on a 15 Minute and Under Desserts page and scrolls through recipes with his mouth hanging wide open. At one point he thinks he starts drooling, but he doesn't care, especially when he comes across a recipe for Turtle Ice Cream cake that would be  _perfect_  for Sammy’s nineteenth birthday.   
  
Then his phone rings, make his heartbeat jump into his throat. His fingers fly then fumble as he hurries to flip the phone open.   
  
“Hello?” he says quickly. “John, what’s wrong? Is Sammy – ”  
  
“He’s fine, sweetheart,” comes John low, soothing chuckle. Dean breathes a heavy sigh of relief and slumps in against the uneven bars of the motel chair. “We just got finished up. We’re about 40 minutes from the motel. All Sammy wants is another bowl of his Mommy’s home cooking.”  
  
Dean grins.  
  
“Well it’s a good thing I made enough dinner for leftovers.”  
  
Through the phone, he can almost hear John smile. “You’re the best, sweetheart. You want to talk to Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean answers immediately.   
  
It isn’t that he doesn’t trust his John to tell him the truth, but it’s always better to hear both of his boy’s voices, to know that they’re both coming home. He knows it always eases Sammy’s adrenaline pumped bones to hear his mom’s voice, too.   
  
“Hi Mom.”  
  
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean can’t stop the sigh of relief at hearing his Sammy, safe and sound. “How are you?”  
  
“Fine. Dad and I are both fine.”  
  
“Good. I’ll see you both soon, okay? Don’t let your Dad drive too fast.”  
  
Sammy sighs, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice, too. “I won’t. We’ll see you soon.”  
  
“Okay. I love you. Both of you.”  
  
“I know,” Sammy answers quietly. “I…I love you too, Mommy.” There is a deep exhalation of breath that rustles against the phone. Then Sammy says, “Be back in a bit. Bye,” and hangs up.  
  
Dean flips his phone shut, a strange feeling tugging at the back of his mind.   
  
Lately, every time Sammy says I love you, the weight of the words tumbles oddly over his skin, as if there is something making them heavier, something new and not wholly pleasant.   
  
It’s probably his imagination; Sammy is getting older, is probably embarrassed about the attention and affection Dean adores to shower him with. It’s a mother’s prerogative to coddle, though, and Dean reminds Sammy of the right a mom has to kiss and hug and generally smother a son with love.   
  
He decides to hop in the bath before his boys get home. They’ll probably need it; they’re usually drenched in mud, sweat and monster guts after a hunt, bodies begging for a hot shower. Dean also likes to greet them with clean skin, likes to feel warm and smell good so his boys will have something good to come home to. He’s sure there’s something in the Mommy Handbook requiring all moms to have dewy skin and fresh, sweet scents when their families come home from a hard day at work, anyway.  
  
Dean plugs the tub and runs the water as hot as he can stand it. He’s read – well, Sammy has made him read - practically a million articles about how mom’s tend to take care of themselves last, stretch themselves too thin while they bend and break to care for their families. Sammy even got him a book about ways for busy mother’s to carve out times for themselves. Dean kissed his cheek in thank you and carefully placed it in his duffle. He hasn’t read it; he doesn’t intend to. He isn’t struggling under the weight of his motherly duties.  
  
Sometimes, though, when John and Sammy are out of the house, he does like to take a nice, long soak in a steaming tub.  
  
When the tub is full, he strips and gingerly dips his toe into the water. It’s just this side of skin scalding and he sighs as he steps fully into the bath.  
  
He leans back, eyes shut, muscles easing, and thinks of nothing for several moments. It is utterly silent except the sound of his own breathing. He holds his breath, clearing the moment of any movement or sound. There is nothing but heat on his skin and the brush of white light against his closed eyes.  
  
He feels peace.  
  
Eventually he has to take a deep gulp of air. His lungs burn but it’s a serene fire, gentle and calming.   
  
Dean reaches for the motel soap. Usually he carries his own body wash and shampoo – motel soap always leaves his skin dry and his muscles clenched, never makes him feel truly clean – but he’d had to give up a few luxuries this month. His family was fed and clothed, though, which was all that really mattered.  
  
He gathers lather between his hands and washes his hair quickly. He soaps his face, neck, chest, arms and legs. After he’s done, he dips the bar under the water. Biting his lip, keeping his eyes closed, he runs the soap along his soft cock.  
  
It isn’t often that Dean indulges. Usually he’s too busy, too tired, too worried his boys might need or hear him, to touch himself. Tonight, though, he thinks he deserves a little indulgence. He thinks he deserves to take a little extra time, deserves to give into that bone melting pleasure he so often denies himself.  
  
His mind slips and slides between blank, white images and memories, random and meaningless, as he rubs the bar over his hardening dick. He doesn’t have to bite back the heavy noise that falls from his lips, but he does.  
  
Dean doesn’t fantasize when he touches himself the way he knows other people do.   
  
He doesn’t read romance novels, the kind he's seen other mom's at the park bury their nose in.   
  
He's seen a few skin flicks play on motel televisions, and even though his cock had plumped hot and pulsing in his jeans, he couldn't forget that the actors were some family's sons, some family's daughters.   
  
He hasn't dared searched online porn; the laptop they have belongs to Sammy, even if he and John use it at times, and Dean would be mortified if Sammy somehow found what he'd searched for. No mother wants their son to see the pornography they've gotten off to, and no son wants to see it either; no son wants to even think about his mother watching porn, getting off, period.   
  
Instead, Dean's thoughts are whitewashed fences and whitewashed noise, fuzzy and incoherent and pleasant. He does think of warmth, of the weight of another body against his, what it might feel like, but the only bodies he’s ever held are his John and his Sammy.   
  
He doesn’t think of Sammy of course; that would be fucked up. He does inhale the phantom scent of sweat and John’s cologne, though, does feel the scratch of John’s beard on his neck, as he slips the soap over his cock, but he shakes those strange, heady senses from his head.   
  
He slides the bar of soap against himself, cock slip sliding slick against. It feels so wet and fresh and perfect, Dean really can’t stop the noise he makes.  
  
It feels almost dirty, the way he pushes his dick against the soap, but after several thrusts he has to slide the soap onto the side of the bath and wrap his hand around his cock. He bites his lip, hard, to keep his groans from spilling and bounding off the dingy tile.  
  
He raises his hips, thrusting his cock through his fist, the swollen, red head sloshing through the water. It feels so much better than he remembers.   
  
The last time he did this, John had taken Sammy to a Parent Teacher Conference. Dean had always wanted to go to one, but it wasn’t his place: his place was at the house, the motel, in the car, keeping things pleasant while his boys dealt with the unpleasant world.   
  
His orgasm builds lazy and slow, rolling sunshine warm through his blood. He sighs softly and rubs his thumb along the underside of his cock before flicking it over his head. Groaning, he spreads his thighs, knees bumping against the sides of the tub. Something about the extra spread makes the next stroke of his hand that much better, makes it enough for him to finally shoot over his hand, his belly, into the water.   
  
Relaxation makes his bones heavy. He sags into the tub with a tiny smile on his lips. He allows himself a few minutes to just breathe.   
  
He feels contentment, quiet in his skin, and lets the water out of the tub. His boys will be back soon.   
  
-  
  
When Dean steps out of the bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, he nearly jumps to see John’s broad back bent over one of the motel beds. Dean manages to halt his sharp breath; he doesn’t want John to know he didn’t hear him come in.   
  
“Hey,” Dean greets, trying not to sound breathless or startled. “Where’s Sammy?”  
  
John cranes his head and his gaze drops from Dean’s eyes to the sharp slope of his collar bone before sliding over his chest and stomach. Dean feels his face heat as John turns away. It’s silly to be embarrassed, he tells himself; it’s nothing John hasn’t seen before. The languid roll of his orgasm is still heavy in his limbs. That must be why John’s gaze is making him feel hot.   
  
He thinks again of John’s scent, John’s gruff and rough movements, and feels himself redden even deeper.   
  
“Getting the rest of the stuff from the truck,” John rasps. His voice is deep. Dark.   
  
Dean nods to himself, feeling strangely exposed, oddly vulnerable. He moves to his duffle to change. For the first time, he considers grabbing his clothes and re-dressing in the bathroom instead of out in the open.   
  
He doesn’t understand why the thought comes to him, can’t shake the feeling of John’s eyes on his skin, but he decides maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Sammy will be in the room any minute and Dean just…feels like he should be dressed, or at least not standing in the middle of the room, dripping water everywhere while he shuffles with his towel. He feels like maybe he shouldn’t be standing in front of John this way at all. It’s the same heavy feeling he had when he realized there was a point that mother’s stopped giving their sons baths.   
  
“I’ll warm up the leftovers in a sec,” Dean says. He pulls some clothes from his duffle and heads to the bathroom. He closes himself in as soon as Sammy opens the front door.   
  
-  
  
The night of Sammy’s graduation, John breaks.  
  
His son is at some all-night senior party that John and Dean would have normally never let him go to, but three of the couple’s chaperoning helped John cut down a particularly nasty coven of witches. He trusts them to keep Sammy safe, and he trusts Sammy’s tendency to curl around himself and a good book instead of interacting with his peers to keep Sammy out of trouble.   
  
It’s all so convenient John can almost convince himself those are the only reasons he’s allowed Sammy out tonight.  
  
The Texas air is humid and heavy. Even with the air conditioning turned as high as it can go, sweat beads on his lip, mats his hair to his neck, makes his shirt cling to his skin.  
  
“God, it’s hot,” Dean says from the other side of the couch. They’ve been vaguely staring at the television, watching people dance and die across the screen through the sweat on their lashes. “Do you think it’s some sort of curse?”  
  
John laughs but it’s dry and small. It scratches his throat. When he swallows, he thinks he can taste blood.   
  
“You can go lay in front of the fan in my room,” John suggests.   
  
Dean’s head lulls to the side, a soft grin on his soft mouth, pink and sweet like lemonade. John is so very, very thirsty.   
  
“That sounds awesome,” Dean says. “You gonna finish watching this?”  
  
Licking his lips with a dry tongue, John searches Dean’s face. It’s the face of Sammy’s mother, the face of his beautiful sweetheart. As hard as John stares, he can’t find his son. It eases the shaking of his fingers.  
  
“Actually, I was thinking of laying down with you.”  
  
Dean’s smile doesn’t falter. Of course he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with spreading himself across John’s bed and speaking in soft tones. Mommies and Daddies share intimate moments like those all the time.   
  
They walk to the bedroom in silence that is probably comfortable for Dean but makes John’s skin crawl. His skin feels too dry, stretched too thin, spun too rough. John needs the silk of Dean’s body to soothe it. He wouldn’t do this if he  _didn’t_ need Dean’s skin to keep his own body from cracking and crumbling to dust.   
  
Dean turns the fan on high blast. He lets his face hover in front of it, sighing contentedly. John watches as he peels his shirt off.   
  
“John?” his sweetheart (because Dean really isn’t his son, not anymore; he’s Sammy’s mother and John’s sweetheart and everything John has given him, everything John wants to take, is only natural) asks.   
  
“Too hot,” John says roughly. His fingers barely tremble as he flicks the buttons of his jeans.   
  
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, swallowing.   
  
John lets his jeans fall, standing only in his boxer briefs. His sweetheart won't look at him.  
  
“Sweetheart,” he begins softly. “It really is too hot. Why don’t you get undressed and lay down with me? You’ll feel better.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean repeats, a gentle echo of his earlier answer. He sounds far away.   
  
John climbs onto the bed. He feels strange watching Dean shuck his shirt but he can’t look away.   
  
“John…” Dean says, biting his lips as his fingers still on the button of his jeans.  
  
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” John asks as gently as he can.   
  
Dean runs his palm across the back of his neck, drops his gaze, clearly embarrassed. “I know that I’m Sammy’s Mom,” he says, shifting his weight. “And you’re his Dad. I know that makes us partners in this family. But lately…”   
  
John runs his eyes over Dean’s face. He runs them along the curve of Dean’s shoulders, catches them on Dean’s dusky nipples, drops them along Dean's flat, smooth stomach. He runs them along Dean’s fingers, watches them slide as Dean crosses his hands in front of his hips.   
  
A heavy breath leaves John as he realizes what his sweetheart’s hands are hiding. Any last thread of apprehension falls from his mind as his blood rushes forward.  
  
“There are things,” John begins roughly. “There are things Mommies and Daddies do, sweetheart, that we haven’t done.”  
  
Closing his eyes, Dean licks his lips. “I know,” he whispers.  
  
“Would you like to?”  
  
Dean’s eyes fly open, startled, before blinking wide. His hands halt their nervous wringing, though, and the tense line of his shoulders soften.   
  
“Are you…? Are you sure you really want to…with me?” Dean asks. “I mean, I know I’m not…”  
  
Dean’s nerves ease John’s own while ratcheting the feeling of rightness rumbling in his belly. His sweetheart  _wants_ this, is half-hard in his jeans just at the  _suggestion_ , and is only worried that he isn’t what John wants, won’t be enough. John’s heart beats fondly, darkly.  
  
“Sweetheart,” he says gently, managing to keep the honey thick, blood dark desire from his voice. “You are. You’re our Mommy, the best one we could’ve ever had. Let Daddy show you how much that means.”  
  
There is only a moment of hesitation before Dean’s brilliant smile appears. He doesn’t seem nervous anymore he slides his jeans and boxers down and moves onto the bed beside John. He is only a grinning, eager, beautiful thing.   
  
When John cups his face, his eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch.   
  
When John kisses him, he opens his mouth, leaving it slack and soft for John to taste. He kisses back, no finesse, all simple, happy hunger, so young and innocent, so sweet, John’s teeth ache.  
  
When John fucks him, he spreads his legs open as wide as he can, no trace of self-consciousness in the eager way he pushes his hips into John’s thrusts and no hint of apprehension in the way he moans for John’s cock.   
  
He makes the most beautiful face when John wraps a hand around his dick, makes the most beautiful noise when he finally comes with John still inside of him.   
  
John's sweetheart is tighter and hotter, more brilliant, than anyone he's ever touched. He really is the best mommy their family could have; he really is everything they need.  
  
-  
  
There are a stack of college applications Sam has hidden like porno mags at the bottom of his bag. He tries to fill them out, but every time one asks for his mother's name, he feels sick. His trembling fingers can't scribble Mary's name.   
  
On the application for Stanford, he writes Dean Winchester. It looks wrong but somehow right, like a word that's spelled correctly but looks funny printed in black and white. Sam knows it’s true, though. As much as it makes his stomach roll, as fucking insane as it makes him feel, Dean is his mother: the only one he’s known, the only one he’s loved. Dean’s name belongs on that line.  
  
The entrance essay calls for 500 words on what gives him strength: what has strengthened him through his life, what will strengthen him through his years at the university.  _My mother_ , he writes, and finds it strange how the words don’t look strange at all.  
  
It doesn't occur to his father that he might not want to remain in their scum soaked little bubble forever, so throughout his senior year, John never asks him what schools he's applying to. Dean gently tries to broach the subject a few times, but Sam just shrugs the questions away until Dean assumes Sam isn't interested in anything outside of their family, either, and stops asking.   
  
His graduation comes and goes and his mind is still racing through his options. He wants so desperately to break away from his father but the thought of leaving Dean (leaving Dean  _alone_ ) makes his eyes burn and his heart tremble.   
  
The idea of waking up on his own, without Dean's voice lulling him from sleep, is a nightmare all its own. The idea of eating cafeteria food instead of Dean's cooking makes his stomach churn, the idea of sliding his shirt over his head and missing the lingering scent of Dean's hands on the fabric makes his skin itch, and the idea of not coming home to Dean's embrace and Dean's familial kiss makes his muscles ache.  
  
The idea of leaving Dean alone with John makes his blood boil.   
  
His father has twisted Dean into such a horrifying shape right in front of Sam's eyes. What would his father do if Sam wasn't watching his hands, making sure they stayed above the blanket? John’s eyes have been lingering on Dean’s body, his hugs and soft kisses stretching longer, and Sam’s eyes have been tracking the movements. What would John’s gazes, touches, become if Sam wasn’t hovering above them?  
  
What would happen to Dean, his gorgeous, too good Dean, who is as convinced of his role as Sam's mother as most people are convinced of gravity?   
  
Sam doesn't know if Dean's unstable psyche could keep itself from crumbling if the key to his role was removed. He also doesn’t know if his absence would leave Dean open, vulnerable, to John’s ever growing sickness. Dean still sees John as the father of their family, but not  _his_  father. How easy would it be for John to convince Dean warming his bed, warming his cock, was just another of Dean’s motherly duties?  
  
Sam has to get Dean away before he becomes as utterly deranged as their father, before his mind fractures any further, before he’s buried so deep he can’t get out.   
  
(Sometimes Sam wonders if it's already too late to save Dean; he has to believe, over the rushing hopelessness clogging his lungs, that it isn't.)   
  
In the end, Sam tears the applications to shreds and throws them out a motel window. He won't leave without his mother, his brother, in his arms.  
  
-  
  
They're in between hunts, squatting in a cul-de-sac of finished houses that no one in the small Kansas town can afford to buy. John spends his days working part-time at a repair shop while Sam searches for new jobs and Dean flutters through the house.   
  
"I know you miss school, Sammy," Dean tells him one afternoon. Sam is at the makeshift kitchen table, looking over articles about a string of suspicious suicides in Detroit. Behind him, Dean is sweeping the seemingly never dissipating layer of dust from the floor. "But it's really nice having you home with me during the day."  
  
Sam smiles, sincere, because as much as he does miss the mini-vacation of normalcy school provided him, it is nice to be alone with Dean all day.  
  
It’s different than the days he spent with Dean when they were younger, before he started going to school, when they would play crumbling board games, when Dean would read to him, when he was still calling Dean Mommy instead of Mom.   
  
These days, he sits in the creaking chair and watches Dean from under his bangs, from the corner of his eye, and he plans.   
  
This case in Detroit might be the perfect first step. Their dad isn’t making much in this town, isn’t getting many hours, but there’s a good chance he could find something full time in the Motor City. Sam’s sure he can make the case that it only makes sense for John to work more, bring in some much needed cash, now that Sam can devote more time to their cases. John hasn’t worked so much since Sam was little.   
  
It will give Sam 40 unspoiled hours a week with Dean. With enough time together, Sam can start easing Dean out of the role he’s been trained into. Sam thinks he can bring Dean from the shadows into the light of the world. He can coax Dean into interacting with people again, remind Dean of the simple pleasures of life outside. He can ease Dean from forehead and cheek kisses into gentle pecks on the lips, ease Dean from warm hugs into warm embraces in bed.   
  
Once he shows Dean how much their father has taken from him, he can smuggle Dean right from under John’s hands.   
  
It will take patience on Sam’s part, and gentleness, but he’s prepared to coax his mother with the same slow sweetness he’s always been given.   
  
“Ugh, my back.” Dean groans and braces his palm on his lower back, leaning against it, grimacing.   
  
Licking his lips, Sam considers the opportunity to set his plan in motion before they even leave the cul-de-sac.  
  
“I could give you a massage,” Sam suggests, voice low and smooth even as his tongue trembles. “Walk on your back or something.”  
  
Dean gives him a soft smile. He leans the broom on the wall and moves forward, dropping a kiss to the top of Sam’s head. Sam closes his eyes, savoring the warmth and the scent that envelops him. He wants to feel those lips on his skin, on his mouth, all over his body, but he’s going to have to be patient. It will be worth it.   
  
“You don’t have to do that, Sammy. I just need to sit down.”  
  
He pulls out the chair next to Sam’s. Just as Sam is about to insist it’s no trouble (and it wouldn’t be, getting his hands on Dean’s smooth flesh, kneading it, spreading pleasure through his mother’s beautiful body, drawing soft, breathy little noises from his mouth), Dean sits down, wincing almost imperceptibly.   
  
Worry and suspicion and a dark, ominous roll of horror sours Sam’s stomach.   
  
“Mom?” he whispers. “Are you okay?”  
  
“Hmm?” Dean murmurs, grin still playing on his lips. “Oh, I’m fine, Sammy. Just been standing too long.”  
  
Sam’s jaw ticks as Dean shifts in the seat, face trembling for just a moment, but it’s long enough for Sam to catch.   
  
Rage builds in his muscles. There’s no reason Dean’s back should make it uncomfortable for him to sit on these uneven wooden chairs. The only pain Sam can imagine that would paint that grimace on his mother’s gorgeous face is a pain so vile, so cruel, he can barely breathe around the horrific suspicions blooming blood splatters in his mind.   
  
“Mom,” he says firmly, the word inching through clenched teeth.   
  
He tries to calm the terrifying beat of his heart. His brain is just jumping, flying, assuming the worst of his father, assuming the weakest of his mother. It’s just the most horrible suspicion he has, the one jumping to the forefront because it’s the most awful thing he can imagine. It could just be Dean’s back. It could. It has to be.  
  
“Mom,” he presses again, digging his fingers into his thigh underneath the table. “What’s. Wrong.”  
  
Dean sighs, “It’s just my back, Sammy, calm down. Need to start stretching more. Why don’t you look up what stretches are good for lower back pain?”   
  
But Dean’s face – Dean’s soft, beatific, lovely face – brightens with a gentle flush of color and his eyes sparkle with a faraway, wistful look.  
  
“You didn’t,” Sam rasps. He can barely breathe. He has to look away, can’t watch that breeze of a blush brush Dean’s smooth skin, not when it isn’t memories of  _his_  hands or mouth that stains his mother’s cheeks. “Please,” he chokes. “Tell me – God, please, tell me you didn’t let him.”  
  
A hand slides on his shoulder. He shudders under the warm, comforting touch.   
  
“Breathe, Sammy. What’s got you so upset? What’s wrong?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, trying to calm himself, to deny his fears, but he knows, deep down, why Dean can’t sit comfortably.   
  
“Tell me you didn’t let him,” Sam pleads again, gaze still shaking and weighted to the floor. “Please, Mommy, just tell me.”  
  
“I don’t – what are you talking about, honey? I don’t understand.”  
  
  
Snapping his eyes to his mother’s worried gaze, the dams of his heart break, overwhelmed by the violent swell of his sorrow and rage.   
  
“Tell me you didn’t let him touch you,” he demands. “Tell me you didn’t let that – that sick son of a bitch put his hands on you.”  
  
“Who – Sammy, why are you talking like that? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean squeezes his shoulder.   
  
“Dad!” Sam hisses. His body shudders. “John! You – tell me that man didn’t put his filthy fucking hands on you!”  
  
Dean’s eyes widen, trembling.   
  
“You don’t talk about your father like that,” Dean snaps, but his voice shakes and his cheeks redden even further. Sam feels like his chest is splintering. “You don’t talk to me like that, you don’t use that kind of language, and you don’t talk about your father like that. I don’t know what your damage is, Sammy, but that’s just – ”  
  
Sam laughs, a dry, hollow sound that tears his to ribbons. “My damage? You let him, didn’t you? God, how could – how could you?” Tears bite his eyes, water his voice, and he hunches in on himself. “How could you let him touch you?” he whispers.  
  
“This isn’t – ” Dean breathes softly. “This isn’t something we should be discussing. This isn’t something you should be thinking about. I don’t understand why you’re so upset – ”  
  
“You’re not denying it,” Sam mutters, utterly defeated. “He fucked you and you let him and you’re not denying it.”  
  
Dean flinches at the sharpness of his tone, his words.   
  
“You need to stop this, Sammy. Just…”  
  
Sam slams his hand down on the table. Dean jumps, eyes widening and breath quickening as he stares at Sam like he’s never seen him before.  
  
“He fucked you,” Sam nearly screams. “Didn’t he?”  
  
“Calm down, son, breathe – ”  
  
“Didn’t he?” Sam  _is_  screaming, now, voice ripping through his throat. “Didn’t he fuck you, Mom? Tell me. Tell me he fucked you. Tell me, Mommy, just fucking – ”  
  
“Fine!” Dean snaps back. “Your father made love to me. Is that what you’re so desperate to hear?” He shakes his head. “God, Sammy. Why are you so set on this? Why do you need to know so badly?”  
  
The words make Sam’s blood run cold. He feels as if his spirit is floating outside of his body, watching the sickening scene unfold.  
  
“W-why?” he whispers. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he hears how shaken and broken his voice is. “Why would you – w-why would you let him touch you?”  
  
Dean is watching him with sad, concerned eyes. “Sammy,” he says softly, desperately, strained. “What – what do you think mothers and fathers  _do_?”  
  
That’s all it takes for Sam to snap.   
  
He stands so quickly and violently his chair falls to the floor. Dean startles at the rattle of wood on linoleum, but Sam ignores his mother’s shaking. He heads for the living room where the Impala keys are next to his wallet. He grabs them both and marches through the door.  
  
Dean rushes after him, shouting, asking where he’s going, what the hell is going on with him, but Sam slides into the Impala before Dean can reach the door to pound on the window. He drives to the shop his father is working at with demon speed.   
  
He’s been to the mechanic a few times, bringing by the lunch Dean packed for their father that John forgot and once because John forgot his wallet. The girl in the office seems to recognize him, smiling and moving to say hello, but Sam storms past her.  
  
He marches through the shop like a man possessed (if the other men in the office knew anything about demon possession, they'd think he was) until he sees his father through the window of the employee lounge. The rage he feels spikes, rising molten hot and meteor fast. He moves forward swiftly, swinging the door open so hard it rattles and draws the attention of his father and the two other men standing by the coffee pot.  
  
“Sammy,” his father says, surprised. “What are you - ?”  
  
His father doesn’t even finish his sentence before Sam reaches him. He wraps his shaking fingers around the lapels of John’s jacket. He yanks John from the counter and pushes him hard against the wall.  
  
“You fucker,” he growls. “You son of a bitch  _mother fucker_.”  
  
Sam nearly laughs at the cruel irony of his words. Gasping, his father wraps his hands around his wrists, pulling, but he’s got inches and miles of rage on the man under his fingers.   
  
“Sammy – ”  
  
“Shut up,” he hisses. He brings his knee up, settling it in his father’s crotch, and presses, watching with a deep sense of satisfaction as John’s face twists in discomfort. “You ever lay a hand on my mother again, I will cut it off and shove it down your throat. I swear. I fucking swear. You even – you even so much as  _look_  at my mother, you sick fuck, I swear to God I’ll kill you. I’m serious. I will fucking kill you.”  
  
Sam grinds his knee in his father’s groin one final time before he drops him. His father stumbles slightly, but he turns away and storms out before John can catch his breath to speak.   
  
-  
  
When Sam gets back to the house, Dean is still sweeping.   
  
Sam finds himself standing awkwardly in the doorway. He doesn’t know what the fuck to say, what the fuck to do. All he wants is to sweep Dean into his arms, haul him to the Impala, and drive until this night is just another stomach churning memory.  
  
He doesn’t think Dean would be open to that plan.   
  
After tonight, though, he also doesn’t think Dean is going to be open to his other plan of slow, sweet, steady seduction. Maybe he  _should_  just drag Dean to the car, shove him in the passenger seat, maybe the back, maybe the god damn trunk if he has to, and get them as far away from this hole as he can before John gets back.   
  
Sam is considering the psychological damage it would do to his mother if he hogtied him and locked him in the Impala, ripped Dean away from his father’s rough hands and just shoved him into a new, better, life when the roar of John’s truck shatters his thoughts.  
  
Dean’s shoulders are set in a tense line. He leans the broom on the wall again.   
  
“John called me,” Dean says as he comes into the living room. “What the hell, Sammy? Putting your hands on your father?  _Threatening_  him? Have you lost your mind?”  
  
There’s nothing Sam can say to that, not that he has an opportunity to say anything. John stomps into the house, slamming the door shut so hard it makes both Sam and Dean jump.  
  
Sam is standing in the middle of the room, back to the door, between John and Dean. He wants so desperately to just turn and slam his fist into John’s face, throw his mother over his shoulder and save them from his mess.   
  
“Sweetheart,” John says slowly from behind him. “Why don’t you go for a walk? It’s nice outside, and I need to have a discussion with Sammy.”  
  
Dean looks warily between them. “John…”  
  
“It’s okay, Mom,” Sam says soothingly.   
  
“No,” Dean refuses. “No. We’re a family, and we’re going to work through…this, together. Now, Sammy, you apologize to your father – ”  
  
“He’s not my father,” Sam interjects, startling his mother into silence. “He’s nothing to me.”  
  
“Sammy! I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but you take that back right now.” Dean’s voice, eyes, are trembling and fierce.   
  
“It’s okay, sweetheart, really.”  
  
Dean looks as if he’s ready to throw a few punches of his own, but he squares his shoulders and takes an uneasy breath.   
  
“Fine,” he grits. “I’ll take a walk around the block. But if I come back and you two have killed each other, I’m not cleaning up the bodies.”  
  
Dean casts Sam a withering glance and is careful not to brush his side as he moves toward the door. Sam doesn’t turn around until he hears it shut.   
  
John is watching him with an even expression that does little to betray the anger Sam knows he must be feeling. Sam meets his gaze and matches his stance, crossing his arms and settling his weight even in his legs. If his father wants a fight, Sam’s more than ready to give him one.   
  
“When your mother gets back,” John says, slow and gruff, no room for argument in his tone. “We’re going to say everything is fine. You’re going to apologize, to both of us, and you’re never going to bring this up again.”  
  
Sam’s nostrils flare as another wave of anger crashes over him. How dare his father think he can just wave this away?   
  
He’s prepared to scream, to rush forward and put his earlier words into motion, when it occurs to him that the bloody, beaten face of his father is only going to make easing his mother out of this twisted little slice of domesticity all the more difficult. His earlier outburst certainly hasn’t helped, and the last thing he needs is to push Dean even further into John’s poison arms.   
  
Now more than ever, Sam knows he has to get his mother away from his father’s disease. He’s starting to think he may really have to spill John’s blood to save Dean. The thought makes him feel cold but not frozen. It doesn’t irk him as deeply as it probably should.  
  
“Fine,” he agrees through clenched teeth, deciding it’s better to keep the peace no matter how much of a sick lie it really is.   
  
He’ll need the calm of false security to make his new plan.  
  
-  
  
The car ride to the job Sammy finds for him and John in Detroit strains the muscles of Dean’s body and his heart. He hasn’t ever felt so awkward, so unsure, so angry with his Sammy and so frustrated with his John. His knees twitch nervous under the wheel and his shoulders are set so tense and taut he feels as if one sudden movement could shatter them.   
  
He doesn’t understand what happened in that little house they had been making their home. He doesn’t know how Sammy realized the relationship between his mother and father had become more intimate. He doesn’t know why Sammy boiled over with rage at the realization. He doesn’t even know where so much rage came  _from_.   
  
How could his little Sammy be capable of such hurricane words and hands? When had that terrifying, violent petulance started building in his boy’s heart?  
  
Both John and Sammy had assured him everything was fine, but Dean had that mother’s instinct, gnawing and certain in his gut.  _Nothing_  was fine. Sammy still glared curses and daggers and heat at his father and John’s authoritative, intense nature had only darkened.   
  
Being near them was like being caught in a storm, swept through black winds, battered upon ice dipped mountains and cracking lava shores. Dean felt his skin being peeled away, felt his spirit weather and rust and tear under the violent tempest.   
  
Soft words couldn’t soothe the disaster brewing. Gentle touches only enflamed them both more. Every attempt Dean gave at sweetness, at mending, at peace, was brushed aside with superficial smiles and superficial words.  
  
Once, Dean had prided himself on his ability to keep their family from falling apart. It was one of the things that made him such a good mother. Now, though, Dean doesn’t know how to hold his boys together when they are so quickly, so brutally spiraling to pieces.   
  
He hopes a change of scenery will help. A new hunt. A new job for John. A new town where maybe Sammy can find one of the things he seems to be looking so deeply for.   
  
Maybe it’s all they’ll need.  
  
-  
  
“They all made deals.” Sammy at least doesn’t sound like it’s killing him to explain what he’s found on the suicide victims to his father. Dean counts that as a good sign.  
  
He glances behind him for a moment before he turns back to the rice on the stove. He doesn’t ask who made the deals, or what kind, because hunting isn’t a mother’s business. Family is.   
  
“You think that’s why they all got themselves burned alive?”  
  
“Yeah, actually.” There is a shuffling of papers. “Two of them, Marcy Daniels and Peter Holloway, they checked out the same book on demon lore. A section about salting and burning bones to keep spirits from rising again was highlighted. And Marcy’s friend said she’d seen them together, said there was something…off about the way they talked, the things they did. I think they thought this would save them from their deals.”  
  
“So Marcy and Peter find each other over this book and come to the same conclusion. What about the other victims? Anything connecting them to Marcy or Peter or each other?”  
  
“All the victims had the same car insurance agent.”  
  
“The same car insurance agent?”   
  
“Yeah. All had payments due this month. All died before they were due.”  
  
“Okay. We’ll go down there tomorrow on my lunch break.”  
  
“Stir fry’s almost done,” Dean interjects. “Sammy, can you clear the table of the crime scene photos? They kind of kill the family dinner mood.”  
  
-  
  
John pulls up beside the Impala only to see that Sammy isn’t in the driver’s seat. Cursing that stubborn, stupid boy of his, John rushes out of the truck.   
  
He grabs his cell and types a text as he walks. He’s still texting and cursing Sammy in his head as he pushes the door to Robertson’s Insurance agency.   
  
When he looks up, he sees Sammy pinned to the wall, a thick forearm pressed to his windpipe. The man holding him turns with a sour grin. As soon as John meets those yellow eyes (those god damn yellow eyes), he pulls his gun from his pocket.   
  
“Ah, nice of you to join us, Johnny.”  
  
“Get away from my son, you son of a bitch.”  
  
The body Yellow Eyes is wearing just presses further into Sammy’s throat.  
  
“You know, Sammy’s been coming up quite nicely.” It grins slick and sick. “And so has that sweet Deano of yours.” Still smiling, Yellow Eyes turns its attention back to Sammy, who is struggling, kicking, gasping for air. “I guess that’s Mommy to you though, hmm?”  
  
John aims for Yellow Eyes knee and shoots twice. The demon hisses and Sammy slides with a thump to the floor.   
  
Before John can get another shot in, Yellow Eyes is rushing him. A slithering slime of power wraps around his throat, cutting off his air, as the demon uses another tendril to pin him to the floor.  
  
The demon hovers close to his face. The stench of sulfur fills John’s noise, stings his eyes. It grins almost as yellow as its eyes.   
  
“Sammy’s got big things ahead of him,” it says. “You, though? Old bones like you just need to be salted and burned.”   
  
Then the demon straightens. Smiling down at him, it delivers a swift, sharp kick to his gut. He grunts, wincing as the breath he can’t breathe is beaten from him. The demon’s other heel comes down on his hand. It grinds the man a shoe into his knuckles.   
  
“Sam,” he chokes. A fuzzy film is growing around his eyes, lack of oxygen, dimming the pain spreading fire fast through his body and stretching clouds in his mind. It’s difficult to think, nearly impossible to breathe. “Sam.”  
  
“He’s here,” it says. It sounds cheerful. “He’s a little tired, though. Mostly I think he’s just getting a real kick – “ accentuated with a jab to his kidneys “ – out of watching Daddy get roughed up. He thinks you deserve it, Johnny, and I can’t say I don’t agree with him. I mean, your own son? Even I wouldn’t touch my kids.” A pause before it adds, “Of course, they’re not nearly as pretty as your precious sweetheart.”  
  
Suddenly there’s a grunt above him and the suffocating power dissipates, although he can still feel blackness coating his throat like slime. The demon is laughing, grunting, over the sounds of fists connecting with flesh.   
  
John raises his head, slowly, wincing at the pain in his neck, to see Sammy land one more punch across Yellow Eyes’ chin before being tossed across the room.   
  
Chuckling, the demon dusts off his jacket. “Well, this has been quite a workout. Unfortunately it was a little bit ahead of schedule. I’ll being so you, boys.” It gives John a wink before surging out of the insurance agent.  
  
-  
  
The fight with Yellow Eyes shakes Sam to the very core.   
  
It spoke like it had plans for Sam, which chilled his soul and made his muscles quake with rage.  
  
It nearly killed his father.   
  
He nearly let it.   
  
In fact, if it hadn’t started spewing words about Dean, who was too precious for a filthy creature like that to even  _mention_ , he doesn’t know if he would have stepped in at all. The demon wasn’t lying when it said Sam wanted to see John beaten to a pulp, and it certainly wasn’t lying when it said he thought his father deserved it.   
  
John doesn’t say anything about the confrontation. Before they head into the motel, he pulls Sam by the arm and tells him they’re not going to breathe a word about Yellow Eyes to his mother. It’s the last time they mention it.   
  
Sam wonders if John is afraid of him, afraid of the things the demon said about him. Sam doesn’t ask, but he hopes John is. He should be.  
  
-  
  
A hunt would be the perfect time and place to end the nightmare.  
  
Sam wouldn’t even have to be the one to kill John. He could let a creature finish him off, a vampire, a ghost. He could tearfully tell his mother he got there just a second too late. He could pretend it hurt, could pretend to shake with guilt, while Dean held him, petted his hair, told him everything would be okay.   
  
He could crawl into his mother’s bed, crying for comfort, and find salvation as he slipped inside of Dean’s beauty and warmth.   
  
As he plans he imagines none of the guilt or sorrow will be real, but his chest tightens as his thoughts darken. The heat of his father’s blood on his hands will probably burn him more than he thinks it will, but he can’t imagine the pain stinging so deeply he would regret spilling it, regret doing what he had to do for his family.


	3. Part Three

“Colorado in the spring should be nice,” Dean comments as he watches the road move past him.  
  
He’s in the passenger seat of John’s truck, Sammy driving the Impala behind them. Sammy had been twitchy for weeks and for once, Dean thought it might be good for the boy to have some air. No twenty year old wanted to be stuck with their parents 24/7, after all.  
  
“We’re not staying long. I just have to meet up with an old…partner, and see if he has what we’re looking for.”  
  
Dean’s curious about what they are looking for, but John’s mood has been harsher than usual, ever since Detroit. Dean’s curious about what really happened then, too, but whatever that hunt held, it was for father and son to bury and leave behind. Dean doesn’t want to pull them into the darkness of those days again.  
  
“We’ll stop at a motel in a coupla hours.”  
  
Good, Dean doesn’t say, because he knows both of his boys are in desperate need of sleep, of soothing. There’s not much he can do for Sammy these days as far as comfort goes, but he’s pretty confident he knows how to bring John down from the headspace he’s in.  
  
Grinning, he leans against John’s shoulder, making sure that his breath brushes John ear as he speaks. “Two rooms, John?”  
  
John makes a deep noise that ratchets the smug self-satisfaction in Dean’s bones.  
  
“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”  
  
“Aw, poor thing,” Dean murmurs mockingly, but he pats John’s arm in sincere affection. “Don’t worry. Mommy will make it all better.”  
  
-  
  
The cherry pie they picked up at the diner down the street isn’t as good as Dean’s homemade, but it’s pretty fucking delicious. Dean gets two pieces to go for himself and one for each of his boys. He eats both of his while he and Sammy wait for John to meet his old partner, groaning and moaning the praises of flakey crust and sweet filling. He’s swirling his fingers over the plate and licking the last remnants of cherry from them when he notices Sammy watching him, face flushed the same color as the pie.  
  
Dean smiles at him around the fingers in his mouth.  
  
“S’good, Sammy. Wish we had some ice cream but Jesus. If mine wasn’t better, I’d go back and ask that nice lady behind the counter what her recipe was.”  
  
Sammy licks his lips before dropping his gaze to the floor. “You can have mine,” he offers, voice odd.  
  
Dean licks his own lips as he glances at the take out bag. “No,” he says. He means it, too. He does. “No, two is enough for me.” He smiles and pats his tummy. “Gotta keep up my girlish figure, y’know? Can’t go around eating three pieces of pie a day.”  
  
“Dad doesn’t want his either.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. He’s sated; content. “And I definitely can’t go around eating four pieces of pie a day.”  
  
“You’re beautiful,” Sammy says. He sounds so serious Dean can’t help the smile. His boys: they spoil him rotten with sweet words. “You’re the most beautiful person in the world. It wouldn’t matter if you were 300 pounds.”  
  
“But it would matter if I had diabetes and had to get my foot cut off or something. What would you and John do without me? Who’d make your favorite pot roast?”  
  
“I can take care of myself.”  
  
Dean hmm’s softly, not disagreeing because his Sammy prides himself on his idea of independence, not agreeing because he doesn’t think either of his boys could get dressed in the morning if he didn’t lay their clothes out at night.  
  
Quietly, Sammy adds, “I can take care of you, too.”  
  
Dean’s eyes flutter opened at that. He glances at Sammy to see a firm set in his jaw and a resolved spark in his eyes.  
  
“That’s sweet, Sammy, but that’s not your job. Your job is to let me and your father look after you.”  
  
“I don’t – ” Sammy says, teeth clenched. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to get taken care of sometimes, Mom. It shouldn’t be you carrying all this weight all the time. He puts too much on your shoulders. I could help you. I could look after you.”  
  
Warmth spreads through Dean’s chest. He must be a good mother to have a son so adamant about caring for him.  
  
“I know,” he says with a smile. “I know you could.”  
  
Sammy finally looks up. His eyes are wide but hopeful, and the smile that breaks across his face is the purest one Dean has seen on his Sammy’s face in months.  
  
Then Sammy grabs the sack on the nightstand and brings it to the small table.  
  
“Here,” he insists. “At least take my piece. I’ll get more out of watching you eat it then I will eating it myself.”  
  
Dean bites his lip. “I really can’t, Sammy, I’m – ”  
  
“Go on,” Sammy says, pushing the sack in front of Dean. He’s still grinning so wide, so bright, Dean is having a difficult time denying him. “You deserve it, Mom.”  
  
“Oh, fine,” he huffs. “I’ll eat it. But you’re going to be the one who has to cut off my foot.”  
  
-  
  
When John comes home, Dean is in a food coma on the bed. Sammy is lying next to him, alternating between rubbing his head and his stomach. Dean feels kind of like a dog, which he would resent more if the ache in his belly and Sammy’s hands on him didn’t feel so nice.  
  
“M’dying,” Dean moans as John shuts the door. “Too much pie. Well – well no, never too much pie. Just. Too much pie in one sitting.”  
  
Beside him, Sammy laughs.  
  
“I got the Colt,” John says. “But we’re going to have to move out of here a little earlier than planned. Elkins wasn’t too keen on handing it over.”  
  
Dean almost pouts at the thought of climbing back into the truck, but a mother’s place isn’t to complain or whine. Besides, it’s his own fault, letting Sammy lead him into delicious, delicious temptation.  
  
“You can ride with me,” Sammy offers. “Lay down in the backseat until you feel better.”  
  
It sounds heavenly. Dean shakes his head.  
  
“No, no. I should drive. You’ve both been up too long. Let me take the wheel.”  
  
“I’m fine, Mom. We’re both fine. A little nap in the Impala isn’t going to hurt anything.”  
  
Dean hesitates.  
  
“Boy’s right, sweetheart. You’re just as worn out as we are. And you know how cranky you get without your beauty sleep.”  
  
Dean resents the comment – he has a fair temperament regardless of how much rest he gets, thank you very fucking much – but he doesn’t argue. His eyes are already heavy.  
  
-  
  
Getting back on Yellow Eye’s trail isn’t easy. It takes them nearly eight months to find the bread crumbs.  
  
There are a hundred opportunities for Sam to let John die, to kill John himself.  
  
There is a vampire nest in Kansas that nearly rips John’s throat out. There is a witch whose curse Sam almost doesn’t lift. There is an actual Yeti that tries to swipe John’s head from his body.  
  
On Sam’s 21st birthday, there is a spirit who tries to lure John into the sea. Sam had to leave the birthday dinner Dean made him, and he’d almost let John drown out of spite for ruining what could have been a romantic evening with Dean, what could have been a perfect opportunity for Sam to show his mother exactly how much he meant to him.  
  
Sam waits, though. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for until they come across a Devil’s Gate in Wyoming.  
  
There, Sam’s perfect opportunity comes.  
  
-  
  
It’s Dean who realizes their father isn’t their father. Sam doesn’t notice anything odd about the way he moves, the way he speaks, the heavy, menacing cloud that clings to John’s skin. Sam is too preoccupied gathering his nerves to notice.  
  
Tonight is the night. He’s known it since darkness descended. He’s felt it in the hot drop of blood sliding from the sore he’s chewed in his cheek. When he and Dean entered the cabin, he could smell the change in the air: the freedom, the peace, that he was going to build from the ashes of John’s flesh and bones.  
  
“That’s not John,” his mother whispers when their father leaves to do a final check around the cabin.  
  
Adrenaline pumps sharp through Sam’s body. He pulls the Colt from his back pocket, hands stable despite the buzz in his muscles.  
  
This is it, he thinks.  
  
This is really, finally it. He can destroy Yellow Eyes and his father with one shot. John won’t even blame him and Dean will see the tragedy unfold with his own pretty eyes, will know that Sam had no choice. They’ll find comfort and strength in each other.  
  
It’s perfect.  
  
“What are you doing, Sammy?” Dean asks.  
  
Sam lays the hand not holding the Colt on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Mom. I won’t let anything happen to you.”  
  
Despite the reassurance, Dean is watching him with wide, clearly frightened eyes. They tremble as he searches Sam’s face.  
  
“You’re not – Sammy, you can’t really be thinking about using that thing.”  
  
“I’m not going to let it hurt you.” Dean’s perfect lips part on a shocked little breath. He looks so scared and so, so beautiful. “Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of here, all of us, safe.”  
  
The words visibly calm his mother. He finds satisfaction in comforting Dean, easing his fear, and in the way Dean trusts that Sam can and will protect them.  
  
Things are going to be so, so good with John out of the way. Sam is going to heal every sickness their father breathed into Dean’s spirit, is going to heal every mental and soul scar, is going to make them a real family. They’ll be more than that, even, and Sam’s heart beats heavy at the thought of Dean moving and mewling underneath it.  
  
-  
  
Yellow Eyes thinks John’s body is a safe place to hide. John can only chuckle, trapped inside his body, and tell the demon what a poor, dumb bastard it is.  
  
Yellow Eyes thinks Sam won’t be able to pull the trigger. Yellow Eyes thinks Dean will stop him if he tries.  
  
The demon clearly doesn’t understand their family. The demon clearly hasn’t been watching the shadow grow in Sam’s eyes for the past few months, hasn’t seen the way Dean bends so soft and sweet to his Sammy’s will.  
  
The demon clearly doesn’t know, even as it creeps inside John’s mind, that John would rather die and drag the son of a bitch to hell than live knowing it’s slithering free.  
  
Sam is ready for them when Yellow Eyes walks back into the cabin. Dean looks between both of them, frantic and frightened, and John wishes he had one last chance to tell his sweetheart how proud he is. He wishes he could kiss him one last time, know the sweet heat of his body one last time.  
  
Dark as the shadow hanging on Sam’s shoulders has been the past months, though, John knows Sam will take care of his mother, the same way he knows Dean will take care of Sam. Their family will be strong, will stay together.  
  
It’s the certainty that gives John the leverage to regain enough control to order Sam to shoot.  
  
-  
  
The words have barely left John’s mouth before Sam is aiming the Colt straight at his chest.  
  
“No!” Dean cries fiercely from behind him. “Sammy, no.”  
  
“He has to, sweetheart,” John says. His body shakes, probably with the effort of maintaining control, maybe with fear. “Shoot, Sam. You need to shoot now. I can’t hold it.”  
  
“No! Don’t – it’s not John! He would never tell you to shoot him. He wouldn’t leave us.” Dean sounds so frantic, so desperate, but he doesn’t move, as if he’s afraid a twitch will somehow pull the trigger.  
  
“Take care of each other,” John whispers, eyes glassy and voice rough. “Do it, Sam.”  
  
Sam doesn’t need to be told again.  
  
-  
  
Everything moves in slow motion.  
  
John’s lips, the bullet, the blood orange thunder and lightning of the demon dying inside John’s body: it all inches by, dragging like an anchor through sludge seas, in front of Dean’s eyes.  
  
By the time John’s body hits the ground, time is moving at regular speed.  
  
Horror seeps into Dean’s bones, making them brittle with fear, and his muscles shudder with disbelief. He can’t hold himself up. His body folds in on itself and he falls to his knees.  
  
There are tears clogging his lungs. His face burns as hot as his chest. He tries to take deep, greedy gulps of air but the stench of sulfur is so thick he chokes.  
  
“Mom?” Sammy’s voice trembles in his ear. “Mom, are you okay? Are you hurt? Mom.”  
  
He hears the rustle of clothes as Sammy moves to kneel next to him. Sammy is going to put heavy hands on his shoulder, he knows it, but it’s still a shock that sends electricity through his system when he feels them.  
  
“Don’t touch me!”  
  
Sammy backs away, but Dean can’t look at him. He can’t take his trembling gaze away from John’s body.  
  
His limbs begin to move, body on autopilot as his brain fires and misfires and tries to realign itself. He crawls forward until he reaches the limp, empty form of his John.  
  
“John,” he whispers, hoarse. He sinks to his knees as he places his hands on John’s chest. He pats John’s body. It still feels warm. Alive. “John,” he says again, more fiercely. His palms slide until he is cradling John’s head, limp, on his thighs. “John, come on, John, please. Open your eyes. Please, please, please.”  
  
“We have to get out of here,” Sammy says behind him. “We don’t know if there were other demons on their way. Meg could be – ”  
  
“Help me with him, then,” Dean says. His eyes are still searching John’s face. “We have to get him to a hospital.”  
  
“Mom… Mom, he’s – he’s dead.”  
  
“His heart’s still beating,” Dean insists. “He’s breathing. He’s – he’s alive. If we get him to a hospital, he can make it, but we have to get him help now.”  
  
Sammy rushes to John’s side. He rests his palm over John’s chest to feel his father’s heartbeat, slides his fingers under his father’s nose to feel the breath.  
  
“Come on,” Dean says.  
  
When Sammy doesn’t move, Dean glances at him. Dean can’t read his expression.  
  
“Mom. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “No. If we can just get him to a hospital – ”  
  
“He’s gone,” Sammy says softly.  
  
“No. Your father is stronger than this. He can get through this.”  
  
Dean is sure of it.  
  
He slides his arms underneath John’s, lifting his upper body. It feels so heavy in his arms – a dead weight – but Dean breathes past a fresh wave of tears in order to haul him upright.  
  
“Get his legs.”  
  
Sammy’s shuffles forward, wrapping his hands around Dean’s forearms. He’s stronger than Dean remembers, or maybe he just hasn’t realized how much his Sammy has grown. Maybe he just hasn’t realized how much his Sammy has changed.  
  
“Mom,” he says, gentle but firm. “There’s no heartbeat. He’s not breathing. He’s gone.”  
  
Dean stares at this boy who is twisting into a stranger in front of his eyes, unwilling to believe the poison he’s speaking, but his heart beats a war drum against his chest. He can’t bring himself to check for a pulse or breath again.  
  
His arms shake so hard he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hold John up any longer.  
  
“We – w-we have to,” he pants. “We have to – w-we – ”  
  
“We have to get out of here.”  
  
“No!” He slumps over, curling his spine and bending closer around the body in his arms. He drops his forehead to John’s, tears sliding to John’s face, breath warming his flesh. “We can’t leave him! I won’t leave him!”  
  
“Mom,” Sammy says again, sliding his hands up Dean’s arms. Dean yanks them from under Sammy’s touch.  
  
“I said don’t fucking touch me!”  
  
Sammy stares at him with sad, wet eyes. Dean can only meet them for a moment before dropping his gaze back to John’s slack face. He’s panting hard, every sliver of his body quaking, but he wraps himself as tightly around the body in his arms as he can and begins to shuffle back, trying to pull John’s lifeless form with him.  
  
“Stay there! Don’t – don’t touch him. Don’t touch me, don’t touch him. You – how – how could you? How  _could_ you?”  
  
“He told me to!” Sammy says desperately. “You heard him. He wanted – you know all he’s ever wanted was to see the Yellow Eyed demon dead and he finally got it. He sacrificed himself – ”  
  
“ _You_  sacrificed him,” Dean hisses. “All John ever wanted was for this family to stay together and you just – you just ripped us apart. You just – you just – ”   
  
It hits him fast and hard like the world tumbling down on his back. Sammy just killed John. Sammy just killed his father. Sammy just killed their family.  
  
“Mom – ”  
  
“I am not – ” Dean says.   
  
His tongue feels lead heavy and dessert dry. He closes his eyes because this  _has_  to be a nightmare. This  _has_  to be some curse, some demon twisting his mind, something evil.   
  
When he opens his eyes, though, John is still lifeless in his arms and Sammy - Sam, because the man watching him with tearful eyes  _is not_  the boy he raised – is still kneeling on the ground.  
  
“You’re not – you are not my Sammy,” he rasps. “My Sammy would have never murdered his father. I’m not your mother. I don’t even know you.”   
  
He slumps backwards, feeling weightless, no love or duty to anchor his spirit to his body or his body to the earth.   
  
The only sound in the cabin is the blood rushing in his ears. His tears fall hot, heavy and silent. His breathing is labored but quiet. Sam isn't speaking, isn't moving.   
  
He doesn't know how much time passes before the beat of boots on the ground moves towards him. He tightens his hold protectively on John's body, buries his face next to John's, and wills the rest of the world to fall away. He nearly chokes as he realizes his world  _has_  fallen away, been torn to shreds.   
  
John is gone. Sammy is gone. Mommy is gone, too, because without John and Sammy, he's no one's mother. He's no one's sweetheart.   
  
He's no one. He's  _nothing_.   
  
"We have to go," Sam says softly before reaching for him.  
  
At the first brush of fingertips on his shoulder, the shock holding him still shatters.   
  
"I said don't!" he yells as he swings his body around.   
  
He puts his palms on Sam's thighs to push him away. Sam falls, a pained sound of surprise falling with him, and Dean takes the opportunity to get his hands under John's arms. He tries to stand, planning to drag John's body out of this nightmare, but he's shaky on his legs and nearly doubles over. Strong arms catch him around his waist. He's almost thankful before he catches the scent of Sammy - Sam. He starts to struggle.   
  
"Stop. Stop, calm down, c'mon, shh, Mom - "   
  
"I am not. Your. Mother," Dean snarls as he twists in Sam's arms. "Let go. Let  _go_  of me!”  
  
Fingers dig into his ribs and he hisses. He digs his nails into the hands holding him, trying to pull them away, but his body is so weak and his heart is too fragile to join the fight.  
  
"I don't want to hurt you," Sam says. He sounds like he's crying. It tears another wound in Dean's chest. "You've gotta stop. We've gotta get out of here."   
  
"Get the hell off of me!"  
  
A strong forearm slides to the front of the throat, putting heavy pressure on his windpipe. Dean claws at it, sputtering, trying to breathe.   
  
"Shh, shh," Sam says softly.   
  
"Get - off - " Dean wheezes, but the struggle is draining out of him quickly. He falls limp after only a few moments.  
  
As his eyes close and the world fades to black, the last thing he sees is John lying dead on the floor. He welcomes the darkness when it takes him.  
  
-  
  
It doesn't take long for Dean to stop struggling. The fight falls out of him and he slumps against Sam's chest. Sam catches his weight easily.  
  
There's a table to Sam's right. He drags Dean to it then maneuvers him onto his back across the top. Sam nearly collapses on top of him, wrecked and weak, but he manages to still his shaking arms by leaning them on either side of his mother's body.  
  
His mother, who looked at him as if he was a cruel stranger, who said he wasn't Sammy but a murderer, who couldn't even stomach the idea of being his mother anymore.  
  
A dry sob crawls through his body before the tears start to fall again, ugly, immense, overwhelming. He wants so badly to bury his face in Dean's neck and feel Dean's arms around him, crawl into the comfort his mother has always so freely and beautifully given.   
  
But he can't, because Dean is unconscious on the table, because Sam had to subdue him before he hurt either of them in his struggle, because he wouldn't stop fighting, because he thinks Sam is a killer.   
  
This isn’t at all the way Sam imagined it would be.  
  
He thought Dean would understand Sam's impossible position, would be proud of his strength, would be eager to soothe the pain of taking his father's life.   
  
He thought Dean might even be angry at John, because the man practically pulled the trigger himself.   
  
He thought Dean would hold him. He thought Dean would kiss him to sleep.  
  
Sam stares at his mother spread across the table. There are tear tracks on his face. Chest stinging, Sam raises one arm to wipe at them, then leans down to press gentle kisses to Dean's warm cheeks.   
  
"Everything's going to be okay," he whispers. He's talking as much to himself as he is to his mother. "I'm going to take care of everything and we're going to be okay."  
  
The words are harder to believe now than they ever have been, but Sam still clings to them.   
  
-  
  
By the time Sam has Dean buckled in the front seat and John's body salted and burned, the light at the end of the tunnel has brightened.  
  
Dean was in shock.   
  
Everything happened so quickly, his mother barely had time to process what happened. Dean watched half of his world be ripped violently from him by the other half and in the chaos of his mind, he probably thought his entire universe had crumbled. That would be enough to shake anyone, and his mother had been breathing their father's noxious designs for over a decade. Of course Dean had fractured, freaked.  
  
When Dean wakes up, when he overcomes the surprise and grief, when he has food in his belly and a clear mind, he'll realize Sam only did what he had to do. He'll apologize for the awful things he said and the hurt he inflicted and Sam will forgive him, instantly, easily. They'll hold each other, fall asleep in each other's arms, and tomorrow they'll wake up to a new world.   
  
Sam slides into the front seat of the Impala. He's packed everything from John's truck into the trunk, because they're not coming back for it. They're never coming back to his place again.   
  
He glances at Dean, still passed out and peaceful, and takes a heavy breath.  
  
-  
  
Motel sheets scratch Dean’s neck as he flutters back into consciousness.  
  
He makes a low, groggy noise as his senses begin to brighten.  
  
Fuck, his body aches and his throat feels like he’s slept with his elbow jabbed against it.   
  
And, fuck, he just had one hell of a nightmare.  
  
Smacking his lips, he reaches blindly for the warmth of a body lying next to him. He doesn’t remember if he fell asleep with John or was watching TV with Sammy when he started dozing. His memories are strangely fuzzy.  
  
“Mommy,” he hears Sammy breathe.  
  
He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to clear his vision and his brain. Sammy is sitting beside him with a can of Ginger Ale in his hand and a worried expression in his eyes.  
  
“Am I sick?” he asks, confused, because he doesn’t remember feeling ill.  
  
“Drink this, okay, you’ll feel better.”  
  
Now that Dean sees the soda, the chill on the can, he suddenly feels like he’s dying of thirst. He takes the can with a thankful smile and gulps the cool, refreshing beverage.  
  
When he hands the soda back, Sammy is still watching him with soulful, concerned eyes.  
  
“Am I sick?” he repeats.  
  
Sammy is quiet for several moments. Then he places the can on a nightstand and turns back to him, taking his hands in huge palms.  
  
“Do you remember what happened?” Sammy asks, slow and careful.  
  
Dean scrunches his face. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just – all I remember is this awful fucking nightmare. What happened? Where’s John?”  
  
Sammy’s fingers squeeze his hands and a desperately pained expression flickers across his face.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sammy whispers. “I’m so sorry – ”  
  
Dean yanks his hands from Sammy’s – Sam’s - as quickly, as violently, as he can.  
  
“You killed your father,” he says as realization, as memory, collides sharply behind his eyes. “It wasn’t a nightmare. You – you killed your father.”  
  
“I saved us.”  
  
Dean tries to scramble off the bed, get as far away from this Sam as possible, but a hand curls iron around his wrist and yanks him across the mattress.  
  
“You killed your father,” he repeats. The words feel so wrong on his lips, like they were never supposed to be spoken or heard; like they were never supposed to be  _true_. “You – ”  
  
“He told me to shoot,” Sam says. “Don’t you remember? Mom, he practically begged me to save him from Yellow Eyes. To save you. Don’t you get it? I kept you safe. I took care of you.”  
  
Shaking, Dean tries to pull his hand away again, but Sam just reaches forward and takes control of his other wrist. He wrenches Dean’s arms in front of his chest, holding him still. Dean winces.  
  
“Mommy, please – ”  
  
Still struggling, Dean grunts, “I don’t care what the fuck he said! How could you have listened to him? How the fuck could have pulled the trigger? God…how…how  _could_  you? Haven’t I – didn’t I teach you anything?”  
  
His legs, tingling from disuse, finally jump start into action. He struggles to his knees, teetering as he tries to pull and push his arms in Sam's immovable grip, but when he finally manages to push himself up, Sam tumbles him over. Strong thighs slot over his legs while strong arms push his wrists into his chest.  
  
"Just - stop for a second," Sam pants. "Let me explain, please - "  
  
"You're gonna have to knock me out again," Dean hisses.  
  
Sam's jaw ticks - anger - but his eyes are shuddering, broken hazel slits.  
  
"You're in shock," he whispers. Dean squirms underneath him and he tightens his hold. "You're just - I know you're hurting right now, but I'm not okay either. I didn't want - I never wanted it to be like this. I never wanted to hurt you."  
  
Dean stares at him and he knows, he knows, Sam is telling the truth. He can feel it in the hot tear that slides from Sam's face and hits his own.   
  
  
What the fuck has he done? What the fuck has he done wrong? How could he raise a boy who could murder his own father? Who could sacrifice family for anything, even for the good of the stupid fucking world that doesn't even know or care that they exist?  
  
He closes his eyes. His brain and his heart are pounding violent, chaotic, and it's too painful to breathe on his own.  
  
"I can't forgive you," he whispers, and damn, he's crying too. Sam's grip loosens. "Just - just knock me out again. Please. I can't. I just...I can't."  
  
"I don't want to hurt you," Sam repeats quietly.  
  
He rasps on a humorless laugh, chokes on it, and finally slides his wrists from Sam's grip. Sam lets him wrap his fingers around his forearms. They twitch under his hands.  
  
Sam shifts on top of him, then, sniffling. He leans in and places a warm, gentle kiss on Dean's cheek. Dean shudders under the touch, disgusted and broken and hating himself for the way he wants to wrap his arms around Sam's body, the way he wants to soothe his boy's tears and his own aching.  
  
"I love you," Sam says against his cheek before wrapping his hands around his trembling throat.  
  
Dean sighs into the black.  
  
-  
  
It's not just shock.  
  
It doesn't get better.  
  
Dean alternates between sitting and looking out windows, catatonic, and curling against himself to quietly, desperately, sob.   
  
When he isn't moving, he looks eerie and ethereal in his grief and beauty. Sam can almost pretend he's a statue sometimes, carved perfection that was never supposed to speak or love or feel pain instead of a broken husk.   
  
When he cries, his body trembles.  
  
Sam drives them to California and finds a small place near the beach. It's haunted, of fucking course, but when Sam manages to burn the bones, the landlord tells him he and his partner can stay as long as they want, rent free. Sam doesn't bother correcting his assumption. What is he going to say?  _Oh, that's not my boyfriend, that's my brother who was raised as my mother but can't even stomach the sight of me since I murdered our father for fucking us up so much?_  
  
The landlord even gets him a job at the local library. He spends his days helping high school kids with research projects and reading to circles of kids who barely look up from their cell phones. He doesn't like leaving Dean alone, but they need food and gas and sometimes it just honestly hurts too much to sit and watch Dean grieve.  
  
Sam takes Dean to the ocean, holding his hand as they walk, but when they reach the beach Dean just sits at the shoreline, staring into the horizon.  
  
He brings Dean greasy cheeseburgers and greasy fries, but Dean only eats half of his burger and picks at the fries.  
  
He buys an old boom box and plays Dean's cassette tapes, but after the first few bars play, Dean walks to it, takes the tape out, and drops it in the trash.  
Sam feels more hopeless and helpless than he ever did before. He's becoming more and more convinced that he's fractured Dean in a way that is irreversible, irreparable.  
  
They sleep in the same bed. Dean curls on his side, fetal, and slumbers when he isn't sobbing or tracing the patterns of the bedspread with his fingertips. Sam tried to hold him the first few days, but Dean would either flinch away or, worse, not move at all.  
  
-  
  
Thursday Sam comes home to find Dean standing over the stove, watching as water boils over the top of a pot.  
  
"Mom!" he shouts. He rushes into the kitchen and turns the stove top before grabbing the pot and pouring it in the sink. Steam rises, hot, and he drops the pan. When he turns around, Dean is still standing, gaze fixed on the glowing burner. "Mom?" he asks.  
  
"I was going to make dinner," his mother says. "I thought, I haven't made my boys dinner in so long. Sammy and John love my spaghetti. I'll make spaghetti tonight. But then I... I remembered."  
  
Sam's heart breaks further, which he didn't even think was possible, the billion shards in his chest already shattered so finely. He moves forward and turns Dean around. He's crying, soft, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, green eyes shining, and he stares up at Sam as if he's begging for Sam to tell him it's all a dream.  
  
Sam swallows the pain in his throat. He doesn't know how much longer he can fucking take this. It's shredding his brain and he can barely function through the haze of sorrow that clings to him and his mother. He has to do something, anything, impossible as it seems to fix Dean or himself.  
  
A tear slides, slow, sensuous, over the slick bow of Dean's lip. Sam licks his own lips, can almost taste the sweet salt of tears under his tongue. Even in his pain, Dean is still the most beautiful thing Sam has ever seen, will ever see.  
  
Sam brings his hands to his mother's face. Eyes flutter closed, tears darkening pretty lashes and plastering them to the sharp cut of cheekbone, and Sam rubs his thumb over Dean's soft skin.  
  
Sam can't bring their father back, wouldn't if he could, honestly, but he can give Dean everything their father did.  
  
He can take everything their father took.  
  
He can make Dean his own, the way John made Dean his.  
  
Watching Dean breathe through his mouth, Sam thinks it may be the only thing he can do.  
  
"I know you miss him," Sam says softly, thumbs circling Dean's cheeks. "I miss him, too." A lie. "But don't you remember what he said, Mom? He told us to take care of each other. And I've been trying so hard."  
  
Dean gulps. His hands come up to Sam's sides, the most he's touched Sam in weeks, and Sam nearly whimpers at the contact. He knows it's not but it feels so much like forgiveness his body aches.  
  
"I know," Dean whispers.  
  
"I can take care of you the way he did," Sam tells him. He moves in closer, until they're breathing each other's air, and slides one hand to cup Dean's jaw. "I can take care of you better. Just let me, Mommy, just let me."  
  
Sam closes the distance between them. His mother's lips are cloud soft, blood hot, sticky and sweet like summer candy. He groans into the gentle press of their mouths. He's been waiting so long, been dreaming so long, of this moment, and in the past few weeks he's convinced himself he would never, ever taste it. He wants to be soft, slow, ease his gentle mother into gentle love, but fire is licking his nerves and he can't still his tongue.  
  
At the brush of his tongue on bubblegum lips, Dean shudders.   
  
He pulls away, but not far, brushing their foreheads together.   
  
"S-Sam," his mother says.   
  
"Shh," Sam soothes. "Gonna show you everything can still be good, okay. Gonna make you mine now."  
  
He leans down to capture Dean's lips again, but Dean turns his head.   
  
"You..." he breathes through another wave of tears. "You killed him, Sam, your own father, and I don't... I don't know how I raised you into this, but I won't let you make any more mistakes."  
  
Sam feels burning needle tears prick his eyes. He breathes deeply, nostrils flaring, and clenches his jaw.   
  
"This isn't a mistake," he says. "I can be what he was to you, Mommy. I can be more. I'll take such good care of you, I swear, better than he ever did."  
  
Dean just shakes his head. Sam can feel himself splintering even further. He kisses Dean past the pain. This time, his mother doesn't pull away, but he doesn't respond, either, just lets Sam lick his mouth before he lets Sam slide his tongue inside.   
  
Sam does moan, the sound shaking his body. Dean tastes like home.  
  
Sam kisses him as he moves them to the little bedroom down the hall. His mother's movements are jerky, slow, but he manages to get them to the bed, manages to get Dean's beautiful underneath him.   
  
He slides his tongue from Dean's mouth with a groan. He licks the tip of Dean's chin before dropping a kiss there, dropping another kiss to his jaw then up, up, up, until his lips slide over the lobe of Dean's ear.   
  
A soft, mewling moan leaves Dean then, hottest sound he's ever heard, and he scrapes his teeth over the lobe. Another gentle noise and Sam is resting his full weight on Dean's hips, can't help but press the hard line of his cock against the soft line of Dean's.   
  
Dean tilts his head away, but it gives Sam access to the gorgeous line of his throat, and Sam doesn't waste the opportunity to drag his tongue from Dean's jaw to the graceful jut of Dean's collar. His mother makes a startled groan and he echoes it, feels it sink into Dean's skin.   
  
It's exactly where Sam wants to be, under Dean's soft skin, his hard muscle, in his fucking bones.   
  
Sam wants his mother to breathe and taste his kiss, wants his mother to feel Sam moving against and inside of him, owning him, taking care of him. He wants to burn the wounds their father left, burn them clean, with his tongue and cock and come.   
  
It might be the only way to save Dean from their father's suffocating ghost, and that's the only way Sam can make Dean his.   
  
Sam kisses down Dean's chest, feeling fabric where he wants smooth, warm skin. He pushes Dean's shirt up, revealing his stomach, and he presses his cheek to the softness, just breathing in the scent of his mother before he presses his lips to his mother's belly. The muscles jump under his mouth.   
  
"Beautiful," Sam says. "You're so beautiful, Mommy. Only beautiful thing in the world."  
  
He sits back on Dean's hips to peel his shirt off. Dean's eyes are closed and he's breathing hard through his mouth. He's so  _lovely_  it's an ache in Sam's bones.   
  
He pushes Dean's shirt up farther, revealing dusky nipples that Sam has been dreaming of, wondering how they would feel hardening under his tongue, wondering if they were sensitive, if he could draw sweet little noises from his mother's sweet mouth if he licked and sucked them.   
  
With a jolt of hunger, he leans up and flicks the tip of his tongue over one candy nub. Dean gasps and Sam groans because it's so damn good.   
  
Sam licks the nipple until it pebbles, then he keeps licking. He drags his tongue from the wide flat to the pointed tip over Dean's nipple then flicks it, back and forth, until he feels Dean's cock fattening, hardening underneath him. It's everything Sam has ever wanted.   
  
He could spend more time just licking Dean's nipple, just tasting, but Dean squirms, obviously an unconscious movement, and his cock aches for more. He needs to show Dean that he can give him more pleasure than John ever did, too, so he sucks the nipple into his mouth and moves his teeth over the nub until Dean fucking  _whimpers_  and arches into Sam's mouth.   
  
"S-stop," Dean pants, but he can't mean it. He just doesn't know he doesn't mean it yet.  
  
Sam moves to the other nipple, doesn't spend as much time driving his mother crazy with attention, but he still gets the nub hard and wet and red.  
  
He takes Dean's mouth in another kiss, deeper, hotter, messier than the first. He slides their tongues together. It tickles, almost uncomfortable, but he can't stop running the tip over the sinful slide of Dean's tongue.  
  
Breathing doesn't seem as important, as necessary to stay alive, as fucking his tongue into Dean's mouth, but eventually his lungs burn as heavy as his cock and he has to slide their mouths apart.  
  
Panting, he grinds their hips together, heavy cocks sliding against each other with hot friction that makes Sam's eyes roll.  
  
"Feel so good, Mommy," he whispers.  
  
When Sam was more optimistic, he'd bought a tube of slick at a gas station in Arizona. The only time he ever used it was when he slicked his own cock, fucked his own fist, imaging Dean's burning body. The lube is at the bottom of his duffle now. He doesn't want to pull away from Dean but he doesn't want to fuck Dean dry, either, hurt him or make him bleed.  
  
He wonders if their father ever did and feels rage flicker heavy through him.  
  
He drops an open mouthed kiss to Dean's lips before he slides off the bed to grab the slick. While he's up, he shucks his jeans and underwear.  
  
He straddles Dean again, naked, angry red cock sliding across denim. He groans.  
  
"Sam," his mother breathes. He's crying again, breaking Sam's heart again, but Sam can't stop now. He won't.  
  
"S'okay," he says. He kisses Dean's tears, licks them away, the way he's wanted for years. "Shh, Mommy, don't cry. Made you feel good, yeah?" he whispers as he rubs his fingertips over Dean's hard, slick nipples. Sobbing, Dean gasps. "Gonna make you feel even better. Just gotta let your Sammy take care of you."  
  
He unbuttons Dean's jeans. There's no thick band from his boxers and Sam makes a deep noise. He runs his thumb over soft skin, over dark, wiry curls, until he can't deny his hunger and has to slide down and bury his face into the musk. He licks over the thick brush of hair and Dean trembles beneath him.  
  
"Gotta get these off," he says, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Dean's jeans.  
  
Dean doesn't help him shuffle the denim down his legs, but he doesn't struggle either. He just gasps through his tears until Sam pulls the pants over his ankles.  
  
Sam stares, breathless, at the jut of Dean's cock. It's so fucking  _pink_ , so fucking  _pretty_ , and Sam's mouth suddenly aches, hollow, empty. He leans up and can't resist swallowing Dean's dick with one deep, greedy slurp. It burns his jaw, sends a trembling gag in the back of his throat, but it's so sweet Sam has to grip his own cock.  
  
A garbled, static noise of pleasure rolls from Dean's lips. His hips twitch up, too much, but Sam doesn't mind. He'd rather choke on Dean's sweet cock than the heartbreak he's been trying to breathe around. Dean stills himself. Disappointed, Sam sucks harder.  
  
Fingers flutter over his hair, his shoulders, before settling into the sheets, twisting and tearing at them. Sam wonders if John ever did this for Dean, because the way Dean falls apart, it seems like he's never felt wet heat pulling an orgasm from his spine through his cock before.  
  
He slides off Dean's dick with a wet, obscene sound. Dean makes a choked sound, heavy with tears and dark desire. Sam licks his lips.  
  
He wants to be patient, he does, get Dean off until he's crying from pleasure instead of pain, until all he can think of is the white hot stars Sam sets on fire behind his eyes.  
  
But he also wants to make Dean his and he needs to lay his claim, over and over and over, until John's brand is buried beneath Sam's ownership. Sam is going to fuck Dean into a new shape, into a better role, as Sam's.  
  
He fumbles for the lube as Dean pants. The pop of the lid echoes through the room. Anticipation is sliding slick through Sam's belly as he squirts lube over his fingers.  
  
"Put your legs on my shoulders.”  
  
Dean's legs tremble but he doesn't move to obey. Pained, Sam wraps his dry hand around Dean's left ankle and maneuvers it until his knee is bent, up and out. Sam breathes heavily as Dean's ass spreads, his hole, so small and pretty, finally exposed.  
  
Sam brushes two slick fingertips over Dean's hole. Dean hisses but it's not a sound of pain, even as his hips sway and twitch.  
  
"So pretty," he says as he rubs his fingers over the rose red heat.  
  
He fingers Dean slowly. As much as he wants to just shove his cock inside that sin pink, burning hole, he knows he has to be careful, gentle, with Dean's fragile body and fragile mind. He eases one finger in, then two, scissors the clinging flesh of Dean's asshole until its slick and pliant against his bones. By the time he can slide three fingers into Dean's ass, his mother is moaning softly through his tears.  
  
He stretches his body over Dean's to kiss him again, still working his fingers in Dean's ass. He can't get enough of his mothers wet mouth, already addicted to the taste, the feeling of velvet trembling under his mouth, the tear soaked heat of his mother's skin.  
  
"I can't," Dean whispers against his mouth. His legs are sliding against Sam's middle, restless, and he's clenching around Sam's fingers like he's trying to squirm away, but it just makes Sam's cock twitch even harder with the desperate need to be sink inside, to fill Dean with his come and his love, make Dean his. Sam licks the words away, swirling his tongue over Dean's lips and pushing the rejection back behind his teeth with a slick slide. "Sam, Sam, you - John - "  
  
"He told us to take care of each other," Sam repeats. "Always told us that."  
  
Dean shakes as Sam licks along another tear track and fuck, as much as Sam hates Dean like this, so broken, the cracks in his skin taste like sugar and salt. "You killed him," Dean says, sobbing under Sam's tongue. "I can't. Your own father, you killed him, and I can't..."  
  
Sam kisses him deeply again, twisting his fingers, crooking them, searching for that sweet spot that will make Dean buck into him.  
  
His own face is slick with his mother's tears when he breaks their kiss. Dean is still whispering, crying, but Sam can only offer sweet, soothing kisses as he pulls his fingers from Dean's ass.  
  
He has to lean back on his knees so he can coat his cock with slick. The flutter of his fingers over the throbbing flesh feels good but he's had enough of his own hand, wants his mother's blistering, beautiful heat now.  
  
He wants to watch pleasure play on Dean's gorgeous face, wants to watch him gasp for air as Sam drowns him in love, but his mother's legs are limp when he slides his hands under strong thighs and tries to wrap them around his waist.  
  
He curls his hand around Dean's hips and urges him to his side.  
  
"We'll do it this way tonight," he says, trying to believe it doesn't hurt that Dean won't spread his pretty thighs and let Sam slip inside him.  
  
Dean closes his eyes but lets Sam ease him into position. Sam slides in behind him, pressing his chest flush against Dean's back, cock nudging the soft skin of Dean's ass, flared, furious head practically sinking into the gentle flesh.  
  
But Sam needs to be  _inside_  of his mother. He brushes one hand down Dean's flank, palms his ass just to feel the skin for a moment before spreading it, opening Dean's ass like it's a gift for the suffering he's endured. He uses his other arm to prop himself up. He can peer over Dean's body, see his cock rubbing against the white sheets, see the wet smear his trickle of pre-come leaves.  
  
"Love you, Mommy," he whispers as he positions the slick head of his dick at Dean's fluttering hole. "Love you so much."  
  
He presses in slow, slow, slow, until the curve of his balls is resting under the curve of Dean's ass. When he's finally inside, he groans, long and loud, and drops his forehead to his mother's soft hair.  
  
His fingers curl possessive over Dean's hip. "Feel so fucking good," he says. "Fuck, Mommy, so tight. Love being inside of you. Love you."  
  
He keeps his thrusts deep, owning, but still slow. His hips tremble with the need to just pump his cock in and out of Dean's clinging, perfect asshole, but he breathes through his mouth and eases himself through the dizzying desire. He promised to make this good for his mother, promised to show his mother how much better his hands, his mouth, his cock, could be, and he's going to make good on his word.  
  
They stay side by side as Sam fucks Dean easy and sweet, but eventually Sam needs more: needs to be deeper, needs to come. With a gentle push at his mother's shoulder and a gentle tug on his mother's thigh, he positions them into a better position for Sam to get some real power in his thrusts. On the third powerful stroke, his cock brushes Dean's prostate, because Dean nearly jumps forward as he stutters on a moan.  
  
Sam smiles. "There?" he asks. Dean trembles and he tries to recreate the same motion, managed to catch that sweet spot on the second try and hit it again, again, again. "Love the way you sound," he breathes over Dean's whimpers. "Love the way you feel. Love everything about you, Mommy, so sweet, so - shit, so perfect."  
  
Dean's ass is clenching hot and tight around him, Dean's body is shaking in pleasure, and Sam just breaks down into a series of deep groans and heavy thrusts. A litany of love you, Mommy's, love you's, love you's, keeps falling from his mouth as he feels that familiar tingle build in his cock. He slides his still slippery hand to grip Dean's cock, drawing a pretty moan from his mother's throat. He wants to watch Dean fall apart first, wants to feel the way Dean's ass will clamp heavy around his dick when he comes.  
  
He jerks Dean through a series of more well placed, hard thrusts, and finally, Dean is coming all over his fist. Dean's entire body tenses, asshole clinging so tight to Sam's cock it almost hurts, but it's that thin slice of too-much-too-good that gets Sam there too. He spills inside of Dean's ass seconds after Dean comes.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he pants into his mother's ear. "Fuck. Love you, Mommy, so good, that was so fucking good."  
  
He nearly collapses against Dean's back, exhausted. Dean is gasping, though, so Sam eases his cock from Dean's ass with a whimper of his own and presses Dean on his back. Dean takes greedy gulps of air, shuddering, so gorgeous in the afterglow of their first time.  
  
Sam does fall then, right next to Dean's side. He wraps an arm around Dean's middle to pull his mother close.  
  
"Love you, Mommy," he says again, and closes his eyes.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final part! I purposefully left the ending very ambiguous: you can read it as hopeful, or the most fucked up thing ever, or hopefully fucked up. Everything comes full circle. Hope ya'll enjoy! I appreciate feedback! <3

Being made love to by Sam is different than being made love to by John was.   
  
It hurts.   
  
Not physically, although Dean almost wishes it did, because he has to imagine it would be better than the bone buzzing pleasure Sam's cock hitting him just right sends through his body. But in his heart, which is heavy and dark, pain crackles electric.   
  
Sam talks where John was mostly silent. He would whisper sweetheart sometimes, tell Dean to come for him; even breathe Mary's name sometimes. Dean never minded; he always felt like he was bringing Mary's memory to flesh, reuniting them if only for a moment in love, and he has happy to give John that peace. But Sam's mouth is always moving, always speaking words that tear Dean apart, because it's so good to hear Sam whisper his love but he knows it shouldn't be.   
  
Sam wants it more, too. He takes Dean in their shower, pressing Dean into the tile while he slides that fat, burning cock inside of him, filling him where he's so empty. He takes Dean on the kitchen table, on the couch, on the floor in the living room and the bedroom and by the stove.   
  
Dean's ass is sore more often, aches deeper and throbs hotter. Sam's cock is bigger, thicker, longer, and his mouth is sharper, hungrier, and his thrusts are harder than John's ever were. But his body groans for it all when Sam gives it to him and sings for more when Sam is done.   
  
Part of Dean feels more like it's fucking, like he's being fucked by his Sammy, but he knows it's making love. Sam is still the largest shape in his heart and Dean can't stop loving him more than he's ever loved anything. Dean doesn't even know if he wants to.  
  
-  
  
After the feeling of Sam's cock filling his ass, moving inside of him, becomes a constant phantom lick in his body, Dean realizes this is his new life.   
  
He's no longer John's, but he's still Sam's, and as ugly and gaping as the festering wound in his heart is, he can't continue to lie still and bleed out while Sam still needs him.   
  
John did tell them to take care of each other, and he won't abandon his role as a mother.   
  
He's already fucked up enough, raising a son who would kill his father and fuck his mother, and he has to start repairing the damage he's done.   
  
-  
  
They settle into a routine that's hauntingly similar to Dean's old life.   
  
Sam leaves for work, Dean cleans, does the laundry, walks to the market, cooks. Sometimes he goes to the beach and watches the ocean ripple for hours.   
  
Sam comes home to dinner. They eat while they discuss their day, although Dean rarely has much to say. He does smile, sometimes laugh, at Sam's stories, and it's almost nice. Sometimes they watch TV, sometimes Sam will read him a new book.   
  
Sam will always make love to him.   
  
He'll spread Dean out and make him desperate, playing with his nipples and his cock and his asshole, licking and biting, owning every part of him, until Sam stretches Dean wide and slides inside of him.   
  
There are days Sam will coax his mouth open and slide his cock down his throat, there are days when Sam will come down his throat and in his ass, days when Sam will coat his face, chest, cock, balls, ass, with come and rub it into his skin while whispering how pretty his Mommy looks. But every day, no matter what, he makes Dean whimper and come so hard he can barely see.   
  
Dean still misses his John, desperately, misses his Sammy to, the Sammy who was young and who didn't have his father's blood on his hands.   
  
He knows he can't get either of them back, though, so he clings to this Sam, the only shard of his world he has left.   
  
-  
  
Things are borderline better once Sam makes Dean his. He regrets not fucking Dean earlier, but he tries not to dwell on the mistakes he's made.  
  
Dean isn't happy the way he once was.   
  
He smiles sometimes, now, laughs, but he doesn't hum under his breath when he's cooking and he doesn't joke or tease the way he once did.   
  
Sam's ache for the Dean he once had is constant.   
  
-  
  
A boy named Sam - and isn't that just so fucking funny Sam wants to rip his own throat out - is dropped off at the library one morning. He's there all day. During Sam's lunch break, he shares half of the meatball sub Dean packed for him with the boy, who smiles happily with marinara smeared across his lips. It looks like blood.   
  
He talks to Sam about comics while Sam shuffles books back into place.  
  
"My favorite hero is Spiderman," the boy says. "Whose yours?"  
  
Automatically, Sam responds, "My mom's favorite is Batman."  
  
He blinks, realizing that's not really answer, but the boy grins a mile wide. "Your mom sounds awesome! She likes superheros?"  
  
Sam offers an awkward smile. The kid is a little too young for him to explain that his mom isn't actually a 'she', so Sam just nods.   
  
"That's so cool! My mom thinks comics are dumb. She tells me I should spend more time outside. I bet your mom lets you do whatever you want, huh?"  
  
"Sort of," Sam says. "I mean. It sounds like your mom just wants what’s best for you. That's what all moms want."  
  
"Is that what your mom wants?"   
  
Sam bites his lip. "Yeah," he whispers. "It's - uh, it's all my mom has ever wanted."  
  
The boy grins at him as he starts rearranging books, fucking up the order Sam's put them in, obviously attempting to imitate him. "Your mom sounds really nice. Is she pretty?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam answers with a smile, feeling the ache in his chest ease. "The prettiest."  
  
"My mom's not very pretty."  
  
"Sam!" he admonishes, but he can't help but laugh.  
  
The boy shrugs. "What?"  
  
Sam just shakes his head. "Where is your mom, anyway?"  
  
"I dunno," the boy shrugs again. "She's been kinda weird the past few months. I think maybe she's sick."  
  
That tugs at Sam's heart. He has enough of his own family tragedy, but he finds himself sinking to his knees, putting his hand on a small shoulder.   
  
"I'm sorry, man."  
  
"It's okay. This dog bit her and now she gets all weird. It's not all the time, though."  
  
The warning bells ring so loud, Sam's head nearly splits. It should be a ridiculous notion, but his life is so rife with monsters and shadows, he won't be surprised if the kid he happened to share his sandwich with is just another link to the supernatural.  
  
"Sam," he says slowly. "Do you know anything about when your mom gets...weird? Are there certain times or days she acts sick?"  
  
The little boy chews his lips thoughtfully. "Um," he says. "Well, yesterday. And today. The night before last night, too."  
  
Sam closes his eyes.   
  
The last two nights have been full moons. He fucked Dean underneath it last night, entranced by the play of pale moonlight over his skin, cold lines of light making the green of his eyes nearly translucent.   
  
He planned to take his mother to the beach tonight, a picnic under the full moon, coax him into stripping off his clothes and swimming naked in the ocean until Sam rolled him on his back on the sandy shore and slipped his cock inside Dean's ass like it was the only place either of them belonged.   
  
"Do you want to help me organize the comics?"  
  
Brown eyes sparkle and he bounces on his heels. "Yeah!"  
  
"Okay."  
  
-  
  
Sam doesn't know how to prepare the boy for the introduction to his mom, but the kid is only seven, so Sam is hoping maybe he won't realize enough to be freaked out.   
  
They walk through the door and Sam spots Dean dusting the ceiling fan.   
  
"You’re home early," he says before turning around. "Did you - Sam... What the - ?"  
  
"I'm Sam," the boy says. He walks over to Dean and holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you."  
  
Dean stares at the offered hand as if he's being offered a severed head. When he glances at Sam, the only thing he can do is offer a half smile and shrug. Dean's gaze falls back to the boy.   
  
"Uh, nice to meet you, Sam," he says as he shakes the little hand.   
  
"What's your name?"   
  
Sam winces. The set of Dean's shoulder tightens and he swallows, hard. Quickly, Sam says, "This is my mom."  
  
The boy blinks wide eyes at him. "This is your mom?" he asks with obvious confusion.   
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Huh," the boy says. He stares between them both for several moments before saying, "You were right. She is the prettiest mom."  
  
A flush settles over Dean's face.   
  
"Are you hungry, Sam? I just made some lemon bars."  
  
"I've never had those before. Are they good?"   
  
"Well, yeah. I made them."  
  
The boy rolls his eyes but giggles. Sam hasn't heard that light note in Dean's voice in...months, and fuck it's good to hear, so nice and melodic. Dean takes the kid's hand and leads him into the kitchen. After the kid is settled on the table with a lemon bar and glass of milk, Dean grabs Sam by the arm and leads him outside.  
  
"Okay, Sam,” he says once he has Sam cornered against the front door. “What the actual fuck?"  
  
"I think his mom is a werewolf."  
  
Dean's mouth falls open, distracting Sam's eyes, and he licks his lips, distracting Sam's brain. "Are you serious?"  
  
"I don't have much to go on," Sam admits. "But I think - "  
  
"I thought we were done with this," Dean says, shoulders slumping. He leans against the wall of the house. He looks so tired.   
  
Sam moves to rub the exhaustion from his mother's shoulders. Dean tenses, and after several moments, Sam settles for stroking soothing fingers over his arms.   
  
"I know. But it's not like I looked for this. The kid was in the library for hours and I didn't know what to do, and then he looked so hungry when everyone was eating lunch, so I shared my sandwich with him, and he just started talking about comics and then he said his mom acted weird and sick on full moons."   
  
"Well," Dean mutters, closing his eyes. "Shit."  
  
"Can you watch him while I check this thing out?"  
  
Dean's eyes snap open, anger clear in their emerald clarity. "What do you mean, check it out? You're not going to hunt this kid's mom, are you?"  
  
"Jesus Christ Dean," he huffs, offended, hurt. He draws away from Dean and clenches his hands at his side. "I'm not going to hunt her. I'm just..." He trails off, then, because he doesn't actually know what he's going to do.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. "You're just going to find her, right? Talk to her? And then when she attacks you, you'll have to kill her."  
  
"No!" Sam denies, sharper than he meant to.  
  
The cruel laugh that falls from Dean's lips is like a cold cut to his skin. "You're a killer, Sam. It's what you do."  
  
"I'm not," Sam whispers, bones springing in his chest from the sharpness of Dean’s voice, cutting his heart to bloody strips. He isn’t a killer; he  _isn’t_. "Do you really think I liked hunting? I  _hated_  it. I still do. I don't want to hurt anyone, Mom. And I'm not going to take a little kid's mother away from him."  
  
"You took your father away from us," Dean says sharply.   
  
Before Sam can catch his breath, Dean shakes his head. "Fine. I'll watch him. Just don't – don’t do anything stupid.” He bites his lip. “And don't get yourself killed, either."  
  
-  
  
Gena Thomas isn't at the address Sam gives him. It doesn't take much snooping to find another address, though, to a shipping yard that he's pretty sure is full of mostly abandon warehouses.   
  
Sam drives twenty miles over the speed limit the entire way.   
  
It takes him nearly half an hour of calling her number and shouting her name to find her sitting in the dark corner of a warehouse, gun in her shaking hand.  
  
"Gena," he whispers when he stumbles upon her. "Okay. Just - just put the gun down."  
  
"Who are you?" she demands tearfully, pointing the gun in his direction.   
  
He puts his hands up, spreading his fingers wide. "My name is Sam."  
  
She laughs.   
  
"Look, I can't explain right now, but I know what's happening to you, and I can help."  
  
"No one can help me," she sobs. Trembling, she points the barrel of the gun back to her throat.   
  
"Gena," he says, trying to be as soft and disarming as possible. "Please. You have a son who needs you. You can't abandon him." He takes a few tentative steps forward. When she doesn't move, he comes even closer. His heart pounds. "Do you know what it's like to grow up without a mother, Gena? My - someone very close to me lost his mother when he was young, and it was hell for him. He never recovered from it. It  _broke_  him, Gena. You don't want to do that to your son."   
  
"I can't be a monster," she whispers, brokenly, and Sam knows he isn't going to save her. "Do you know what that's like? Having blood on your hands?"  
  
"Yes." He's crying now, too, hot tears blurring his vision as he moves closer.  
  
"Does it ever wash off?"  
  
Sam tells himself to lie, to say it gets better, but his tongue is stuck to the top of his mouth. He can barely even breathe let alone speak.   
  
"Tell him I love him," she whispers, and slides the gun into her mouth.   
  
-  
  
Sam doesn't know how long he stays with the body, arms wrapped around his knees, tears burning his face.   
  
It's dark when he gets home.  
  
-  
  
It's surreal to eat dinner with a stranger. Dean hasn't spoken with anyone but his family in so long he feels awkward, strange. But Sam - and isn't that just so fucking ironic Dean wants to run his head through the wall - is a happy kid, chatting excitedly about comic books and lemon bars. He's eager to help Dean prepare dinner, even sets the table as he sings under his breath.   
  
They are half-way through dinner, half-arguing about the new Batman movies - because Sam doesn't understand why Batman didn't just kill the Joker and Dean is getting frustrated trying to explain the moral complexities of the story - when Sam staggers through the door.   
  
Dean barely thinks as he rushes forward. He can see Sam isn't hurt but he can also see Sam is exhausted, sorrowed, and he knows it didn't go well.   
  
"Tell me you didn't," he says as he wraps Sam's arm around his shoulder and leads him to the couch.   
  
"I didn't," Sam says quietly. "But she did."  
  
Dean closes his eyes. He tries not to be angry, but rage spikes through him at the thought of a mother ripping herself away from her son.   
  
"I tried," Sam says. He sounds desperate. "I swear, Mom, I tried to talk her out of it, I tried, I did - "  
  
"Shh," Dean whispers. "I know. I know."  
  
Sam starts crying - Dean suspects he has been for a while, actually, given the red rims around his eyes - at the softness of his words.   
  
"It's okay. Sam..." He hesitates over his words, but the boy sobbing on the couch isn't the one who put a bullet in John's chest. "Sammy," he breathes, and that draws Sam's eyes open. "It's going to be okay."  
  
-  
  
Sam misses his mom, but his new family takes care of him.  
  
He doesn't have his own room for a few weeks but then they move to a new house with two bedrooms  _and_  two bathrooms. He’s never had his own  _bathroom_ before.  
  
Daddy Sam takes him to a new school, which sucks at first because he misses his friends, but he actually makes cooler friends in his new class, friends who don't know anything about him ever eating glue, and his new teacher is prettier than his last one.   
  
It's nice having a Daddy, because Sam never had one before, and Daddy Sam is pretty much everything he imagined a good Daddy would be.   
  
He's really, really big, tall and strong, and can give piggy back rides like it's nothing.   
  
He's also really, really nice. They play catch and go fishing sometimes and if he's good, Daddy Sam will even give him lessons driving the Impala.  
  
His new Mommy is different from his real Mommy, but not in a bad way.   
  
He still cries when he thinks about his real Mommy but his new Mommy will hold him and cry with him until he can't cry anymore. His new Mommy cooks the best food he's ever eaten, sews the rips he puts in his pants, and even cleans his room for him.   
  
Sometimes they all go to the beach or the park or to the movies. It's nice, being part of a family.   
  
Sam knows it isn't a normal family, knows his new Mommy is different from every other Mommy he's seen, but he thinks they're happier than other families.   
  
Daddy Sam and Mommy never fight.   
  
He hears Mommy making noises at night sometimes, but his new friends explained that those noises just meant his parents loved each other a lot, so he doesn't worry.   
  
Mommy takes care of both of them and when he tells his teachers and his friends about how his Mommy always lays out clothes for Daddy Sam and him and packs them lunch, they're all jealous. Daddy Sam is taller and stronger and more handsome than the other Daddy's, and he knows some people are jealous of that, too.   
  
Sam misses his mom, but he loves his new family.   
  
He hopes he gets to stay with them forever.


End file.
